Decisions
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Christian and Leslie speak to Roarke about the upcoming changes, while Anna-Kristina talks Leslie and Roarke into more reminiscences. Part 2 of 3. Follows 'Insights'
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _I did say this would be the second of a two-parter, but there's more to come. I noticed this was getting lengthy, so I thought I'd split it into two stories. That way I can post and you can read! :) By the time you see this I should be working on the next one._

* * *

§ § § - - October 10, 2009

Noelle Tokita took over supervision of the children as soon as Christian and Leslie arrived at the main house that Saturday morning, and Christian waited there, working on problems with a client's website, while Leslie accompanied Roarke and Rogan to the plane dock to see their latest guests in. This time, Roarke put Rogan in charge of both fantasies—the first time he had done so—and instructed his reluctant relative to keep a sharp eye on them both, check in on them regularly, and report back equally regularly. "And you really must stop finding excuses to detour to your greenhouse," Roarke added severely, "since you have an unfortunate tendency to forget what you _should_ be doing and instead become engrossed in what you _wish_ to be doing."

Rogan got a guilty look about him and chanced a sheepish grin at his father's cousin. "Well, ye know how I get around me plants, uncle," he said with a shrug. "But then again, it should make me good with the potions, don't ye think?"

"You may as well stop wasting that vaunted Irish charm," Roarke said, unmoved. "It won't work on me. Just assure me that you'll do as I've instructed you, and then simply do it without excuses or questions."

"Unless those questions have something to do with the fantasies," Leslie put in.

Roarke nodded. "Precisely."

Rogan stared at him and protested, "But if ye leave both fantasies up to me, what're ye two plannin' to do all weekend long?"

"See if you can handle it," said Leslie.

Rogan awarded her a dirty look and turned to Roarke. "Is that true?"

"Yes, that's exactly what we'll do," Roarke assured him. "You've had several months of extensive training and assistance from both Leslie and me, and now it's time to find out whether you're capable of doing this without destroying the business Rory will one day be taking over. I have little doubt you're quite capable, Rogan; your dedication is what leaves a great deal to be desired, not your ability."

Rogan grumbled what sounded like invective in Irish Gaelic before shaking his head. "Ye're a sadist, uncle. And I want words with that benighted tribunal before ye go. In the meantime, I may as well get on with it. Tell me, might I have th' use of your study, or am I to send those poor blighters off into their fantasies from their bungalows?"

"From here, as always," Roarke said, unruffled. "We will be here should you need us, but I should be quite impressed if you could manage without using me or Leslie as a crutch, just this once at least. After all, the day will come when you have neither of us."

Grumbling, Rogan gave in, and for the next hour or so Leslie and Roarke—and Christian, once he had solved the website problems—looked on while Rogan took charge of both fantasies and managed to get their guests started for the weekend without any glitches, even minor ones. Roarke, pleased, told Rogan he had done very well and suggested he make a few of the usual rounds. "I need to speak with Christian and Leslie."

Rogan tossed the latter two a curious look, but kept it to himself. "Aye, very well, uncle. I guess I'll see ye around lunchtime." Roarke agreed, and Rogan departed, looking as if he would have preferred to stay.

"I presume," Roarke said as he took his seat behind the desk, "that you two have had a chance to discuss this issue in some depth."

Christian nodded, settling into one of the leather chairs and watching Leslie lower herself into the other. "We decided it was time to weigh the merits and drawbacks of staying here on the island or returning to Lilla Jordsö. While we realize the final decision is ours alone, we thought we should speak with you about it before making it."

Roarke nodded. "Tell me what you considered."

"Since Christian's always been so fierce about his privacy, we talked about that first," Leslie said, gazing at her folded hands in her lap. "Overall, he's had more privacy here than in Lilla Jordsö, but when we talked it over in depth, we realized that it sort of evens out. We seldom get accosted by the media over there, not even when we land at or take off from the airport, or go out for excursions in the city. I mean, sure, we see photographers shooting us from a little ways off, and those pictures show up in the magazines or whatever, but most of the time they keep their distance. Carl Johan laid down a few unassailable new ground rules about media contact after that press conference where Christian and I described what we saw the day Gabriella died..."

"What did happen?" Roarke interjected.

"One TV-tabloid reporter, who has done her utmost to harass us for nearly thirty years, essentially took over the entire conference and asked all the questions," Christian said tightly. "I was already irritable from lack of sleep, but her actions and the way she worded her questions simply set me off. Carl Johan agreed with me and drafted the new rules."

Roarke nodded. "I see. Have they worked?"

"I'm told they have. Rudolf was out all summer doing planting projects, as he's done each summer for several years now; and he said there were only two occasions on which he encountered unexpected media people. Both times, they were respectful and asked if they could take photos, and because of that, he agreed to it. So it seems things have become much more peaceful on that front." Christian smiled. "I suppose my father and Arnulf either enjoyed the publicity or didn't care what its effects were, and Briella was probably too busy wrestling with parliament to worry about the media. So it's turned out to be a relief not only that Carl Johan had those rules put into place, but that they actually work."

"Then we talked about our working lives," Leslie said after a moment's lull. "I won't go into detail on that, but what it boiled down to is that I'd be primarily a mother no matter where we live. Here, I could supervise the administrative committee, which unfortunately doesn't really appeal to me; or, in Lilla Jordsö, I could tutor the children in English. That's something I have more confidence in myself about, because I'm a native speaker and I could probably do a fairly decent job teaching the language. So that would be an advantage for moving. And Christian would be closer to all his other offices. I mean, from here, he has to fly at least twelve or fourteen hours to get to any one of them. In Lilla Jordsö, two are within three or four hours' flight, and the Boston office is a day away."

"Would you keep this branch open?" Roarke asked.

Christian nodded. "Yes, I think I would. When it got down to it, I didn't feel right about closing it and putting Anton, Taro, Jonathan, Julianne, Beth and Darius out of their jobs. Anton's proven to be a very capable manager, and I trust him implicitly."

"What about living quarters?" Roarke inquired.

Christian and Leslie looked at each other. "That was probably the biggest one," Leslie admitted. "It's obvious that we'd stay in our house if we remained here on the island, but we went back and forth for an eon about where we'd live if we moved. We've been spoiled by having an entirely separate living space to ourselves, here on the island. And on top of that, there's the fact that Gerhard, Anna-Kristina and Margareta all live outside the castle with their families...or spouse, in Magga's case, since they don't have kids."

"My sister has said we should live in the castle," Christian said. "Ready-made living spaces and someone to do all the heavy work for us. And there's also the fact that all four of our children could have their own rooms...for that matter, their own suites, never mind just one room. That would delight them no end, I'm certain. But I've lived outside the castle nearly half again as long as I lived _in_ it...and I'm used to doing certain things for myself, such as cooking and certain cleaning chores. And Leslie has never been comfortable dealing with servants at every turn. Even Ingrid made her feel slightly extraneous at times."

They laughed a little at that, and Leslie shrugged. "I suppose I could get used to not having to worry about housework...laundry, dusting, vacuuming, making the beds, that kind of stuff. But then, I'm afraid I wouldn't know what to do with myself. So it was one big argument for us living outside the castle. The only thing Christian could think of that he missed about the place was the atrium."

"You could have a home custom-built," Roarke said.

"We thought about that too," Christian said through a sigh. "The expense is the main obstacle staring us in the face with that option. And then Leslie brought up the fact that one has to maintain a house—keep it in good repair. That involves such things as roof replacement, painting the exterior perhaps, making sure the plumbing and electrical systems are in good working order...and of course, there's lawn care as well. If one isn't inclined toward such pursuits and finds them daunting—as I admit I do—it's probably best to give up that idea and take up residence in the castle. All the suites are furnished, although I can think of at least one piece of furniture I'd prefer to take back with me, along with quite a few personal artifacts, both necessary and frivolous. And then, of course, there are all the electronic items—computers, DVD and CD players—which has made me curse the lack of global uniformity in electrical-wiring systems. However, the expense of acquiring new ones is nothing compared to home ownership."

"Indeed," Roarke said. "So it appears you and the children would join those of the family who still reside in the castle."

"Seems so," Christian agreed with some reluctance. "I think Leslie and I would insist on choosing a different suite, though. The one we currently use was once Anna-Kristina's, and at this time there's no one in the royal suite—not that we would ask to move in there, for eventually Matti will take up residence in there. There are several dozen suites to choose from in fact, so we could take our time about it while using the current one."

"What of the children?" Roarke asked. "As I understand it, the educational systems are a bit different, at least in the early years."

"It'd be as if the triplets had an extra year of kindergarten, that's all," Christian said. "We have _lekskolan_ —this translates literally to 'playschool'—for six-year-olds, which can be said to be the equivalent of kindergarten. And they wouldn't be necessarily repeating their current year of school. They would be learning certain things about _jordisk_ culture: it's usual for _lekskola_ teachers to read their students the most well-known _jordiska_ fairy tales, teach them folk and traditional songs, make them familiar with the national anthem and our flag, and give them some familiarity with the royal family. More subtly, the children would gain familiarity with the culture, the games _jordiska_ children play, the current slang used by young people, pop-culture references, and other such things."

"They'll make new friends, too," Leslie added softly.

Roarke and Christian both noticed at that point that she'd been quieter and quieter during the discussion, and studied her. "You sound dubious, child," Roarke said.

Leslie looked up, and for the first time they could see disquiet in her expression. "The kids will make new friends, but I...that's one thing I've been really worried about. In a way, it takes me back to my childhood before I was orphaned—having no friends and not really knowing how to go about making any. For me, having to leave my friends behind would be the biggest argument against moving. It was a drawback for Christian too, but not quite so much; he'd probably get back in touch with his old friends Pelle and Ernst. But I'd be starting from scratch, and I don't really know where I'd even try to begin."

Christian released another soft sigh and Roarke sensed they had been over this subject more than once during their talk. "Leslie, as I said, start with Anna-Laura and Amalia. Have them talk about representing some charities with you, and give you some idea of what's out there, and you can choose what most appeals to you. From there, I'm sure you'd meet women you have things in common with. And it's not as if you'd be totally cut off from your friends here. What with e-mail and even video chat, you could keep in close touch with them as often as you wished."

Leslie's cheeks colored, and she cast Christian a sheepish, apologetic look. "I know, I know. I guess I'm just hung up on that particular thing."

Christian smiled. "Believe me, my Rose, I do understand. I'll miss Grady, Nick, Kazuo, Jimmy, Fernando and Brian just as much as you'll miss Maureen, Lauren, Michiko, Myeko, Camille, Tabitha and Katsumi. I know it won't be the same as being able to see them anytime you like, but consider it—you left behind a friend or two when you moved cross-country as a child, didn't you? And, Michael's forbidding it notwithstanding, you'll recall that letters were just about the only way one could stay in touch with old friends after a move like that, in those days. Yet I suspect you survived."

Leslie grinned. "Yeah, I guess so. The only friend I remember missing was Spencer Gray, after we moved. I'd probably get over it after a while. And there's Skype, right? The only bugbear would be the massive time difference."

"Yes, I'll admit, that's a major point, but even that isn't insurmountable. You and I had instant-messaging chats in the years we were waiting to marry, and we faced the same obstacle and overcame it. There's a way around everything, my Rose, if you give it enough thought. So don't worry, all right?" Christian leaned over and kissed her cheek.

Roarke smiled, watching them. "And what would you do with your house here on the island?" he inquired.

"Keep it," Christian and Leslie said together, and grinned at each other. Christian went on, "It's a good investment, and we've played with the idea of renting it out if we could find someone who was interested and whom we could trust. We haven't come to any solid conclusion on that, but we see no reason to sell it."

Roarke nodded, glancing back and forth between them. "I believe you've made your decision, haven't you?"

They both nodded, and again Leslie looked at her hands in her lap as Christian said gently, "We'll be moving to Lilla Jordsö, but not for some time. The primary motive will be allowing the children to finish their year of kindergarten here; and in the meantime, I can begin making arrangements to shift my personal business operations to Sundborg, while Leslie familiarizes herself with the administrative committee and sees to it that it's running well and smoothly. We'll also make arrangements for shipping certain of our belongings to the castle in preparation for the move, and if we can come to some sort of decision about the house, we'll act on that as well."

"But we decided we'll come back for the summer, every year," Leslie said, meeting her father's gaze. "It's the same thing as when Michiko used to come back here each summer when Errico was alive. This way, we'll be able to have our own time here, keep in close touch with all our friends, and see that the triplets and their friends remember one another too. It..." She swallowed and looked at Christian with such gratitude that it made Roarke smile. "It was Christian's idea, and it was pure genius."

Roarke nodded. "I approve wholeheartedly." He sat back and smiled. "I believe you two have covered all the most important points, and I must admit, I was half expecting you to make the decision you did. When all is said and done, you are part of the royal family, and there's no doubt that you've made yourself unique in all the world, Christian, leaving your native country to take up residence in another as you did. But under that circumstance, it simply makes sense for you to return and make your home country your primary residence. I will say, however, that I'm glad you'll be spending summers here. I think it may be wise for you to keep an eye on Rogan." He winked at Leslie, and she burst into laughter.

"You're probably right," she remarked, noting Christian's grin. "But you might want to impress on him the importance of checking his e-mail at least once a day, and of being more detailed, thorough and forthcoming in his messages."

After a moment's levity, Roarke queried gently, "Have you explained to the triplets what will be happening?"

Christian and Leslie exchanged a guilty look. "I didn't really want to say anything before we had to," Leslie admitted. "And they're just old enough that they'll probably object to the whole idea of moving. But the worst of it will be trying to make them understand what's going to happen to you. It'll be hard enough just because I don't completely understand it myself. I..." She caught her lip between her teeth and sent Roarke a beseeching look. "I was hoping you could help us break the news and explain it a little bit."

Christian nodded when Roarke looked to him. "I'd be at a loss for words myself. It's difficult enough to explain it at all, but to try to explain it in terms a five-year-old could grasp...it's beyond me, I'm afraid."

"I'll do what I can," Roarke agreed. "You need only let me know when you're ready to tell them. But I wouldn't wait too much longer."

They murmured acknowledgment of his gentle warning, but he could tell neither of them was prepared to deal with the problem just yet. For the moment, he was willing to let it slide; but he made a mental note to remind them again before the month was out. Taking a breath and gathering the strength that seemed to fade a little more each day, he changed the subject. "What time were you told to be at the hospital to witness Anna-Kristina being brought out of her coma?"

Christian tossed a glance at the grandfather clock. "About four, if I recall correctly. Perhaps you should come with us, Mr. Roarke, in case she asks to hear more recollections of previous fantasies. It may have seemed like a joke before, but she herself mentioned it."

"I wonder if they're going to put her back under if she turns out to still be susceptible to those mind tricks the serum tends to bring on," Leslie mused.

"We'll have to wait and see, that's all," Christian said through a sigh. "Since we have to wait till this afternoon, I may as well go into the office and try to make myself useful. I hope in the meantime the two of you can find something to do besides wait for Rogan to make some major mistake." He grinned when Leslie rolled her eyes and Roarke shook his head, departing the house after dropping a kiss on his wife's lips.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § - October 10, 2009

Roarke had accompanied his daughter and son-in-law to the hospital where their niece was about to be brought out of her coma; they now lingered near the door of Anna-Kristina's room, waiting while the doctors prepared to revive the princess. The still form in the bed looked quite peaceful, almost too much so; Leslie found herself assaulted by mental images of their last-ever glimpses of Gabriella just about a year before, and had to remind herself that this was far from the same thing. Christian's expression was solemn; he stood in silence with his arms folded over his chest, hazel eyes fixed on his niece, as if he were personally responsible for her.

At last the doctor in charge gave the go-ahead, and Christian, Leslie and Roarke moved to the end of the hospital bed and watched as a nurse started the IV drip. Several minutes ticked by before Anna-Kristina began at last to stir; she rolled her head a bit on the pillow, then opened her eyes and peered in confusion at all the faces surrounding her. _"Va' hender häromkringa?"_ she mumbled, blinking.

"Is that normal?" Leslie asked the doctor. "I mean, for her to be so confused? She just asked what's happening around here."

"She probably just needs a memory jog," the doctor said. "You can go ahead and answer her question, Your Highness." He nodded to Christian.

In _jordiska_ Christian reminded Anna-Kristina of where she was and why she was there; she frowned, processing this, then lit up as if memory had finally returned to her. "Oh, yes, that's right...so am I free from amakarna yet?" she asked.

"You are halfway through the waiting period," Roarke explained to her. "It must be ascertained now whether you can continue through the remaining seven days without incident, or if you suffer hallucinations and nightmares once more."

 _"Oh,"_ Anna-Kristina blurted, her eyes widening. "Oh, fate help me—I remember everything now. I wonder how long it will take before we know..."

"We'll just have to wait and see," Christian said. "But Leslie and I can stay here and keep you company, if you like, and I think Mr. Roarke is prepared to do the same. He and Leslie put Rogan in full charge of the fantasy business for the weekend."

"I hope you don't regret that later, Mr. Roarke," said Anna-Kristina, making them all laugh. She grinned and peered at the doctor in charge. "If I could, I'd like to sit up and perhaps have some water...even a cup of ice chips would be nice. No one bothered to tell me I'd be so thirsty when I woke."

A nurse went for these items, and the doctors checked Anna-Kristina's vital signs and took a blood sample, then assisted her out of bed and into the little bathroom. A little less than ten minutes later, she was back in the bed, unpleasantly surprised at how weak her muscles had become after a mere five days of unconsciousness, and telling the doctors that she had no recollection of any kind of dream since being put under. "I thought it was worth saying that, in case somehow my hallucinations were so bad that they even defeated being put to sleep for a week."

"That's never yet happened, and there's no reason to assume you'd be the first," the doctor told her. "It'll be a while before we can get back the results of the blood test so we can let you know how the serum is working on you, so you might as well relax and have a nice visit with your aunt and uncle and Mr. Roarke." He smiled at the visitors and excused himself, and the rest of the medicos followed him, leaving Anna-Kristina with the others.

"Well, if we have to wait...what about a few more fantasy memories?" she asked, a hopeful note in her voice.

"Fate take it," Christian said with a resigned laugh, "I knew she'd ask for that. I hope you two are prepared. For that matter, maybe you should have something to drink, if you're going to find yourselves talking for some time to come."

"You shouldn't sound so critical of me," Anna-Kristina said with that typical Enstad raised brow. "You'll be here listening just as closely as I will."

"I certainly will," Christian said. "I'm only remarking on how thoroughly predictable you are." He winked when she let out an indignant noise, and grinned, rising. "I think I'll find something to drink before you start. What would you two like?"

After he returned with beverages, Anna-Kristina trained an expectant gaze on Leslie. "So, Aunt Leslie...I'm dying to hear some really good stories."

Leslie thought it over for a moment or two. "Well," she considered, "Christian and I had some heavy decisions to make this week, and it occurs to me that we've had plenty of guests who were facing heavy decisions of their own. And they had some interesting ways of making those decisions. Especially this first one." She grinned and looked at Roarke. "I always got such a kick out of that woman who wanted to make sure her showbiz-idol fiancé was being faithful to her, because of the way she did it."

Roarke laughed. "I believe I know which one you're referring to. If you like, you can start. I admit to being grateful I had worked through all the problems with the potion before I allowed it to be used in a fantasy."

Leslie giggled and said, "Yeah, considering what happened to Tattoo." She noticed the looks on Christian and Anna-Kristina. "I'll explain later. Right now..."

§ § § - December 6, 1980

Their first guest was a muscular, good-looking young man casually dressed in a red polo shirt and khakis; as he headed down the ramp, he slung a dark-blue jacket over one shoulder. "Boss, he looks like an athlete," Tattoo commented.

"An athlete? Oh yes, yes, of sorts," said Roarke.

"Of sorts?" Leslie echoed blankly.

"Is he famous? Should we know him?" Tattoo asked.

"No, no. Mr. Ned Pringle is a popcorn vendor with a circus, but with a familiar dream." Roarke's smile was faint but indulgent. "He is in love with a beautiful lady who, we might say, is far above him. His fantasy is to bridge the distance between them—and Miss Velda Ferrini is certainly worth looking up to."

Only then did Leslie and Tattoo understand his pun. "Velda Ferrini, of the world-famous trapeze act?" Tattoo breathed, amazed.

"But she's always surrounded by the rest of the Ferrinis," Leslie protested. "I know—I've seen their act on TV. And all the other Ferrinis are guys."

"She is so sheltered, so guarded, that no stranger can get near her," Roarke confirmed.

"But here on Fantasy Island, we make happy endings," Tattoo said confidently.

"Happy endings? No, not exactly, Tattoo...we merely provide the stuff that happy endings are made of. And from that, each guest must fashion his or her own destiny." On that note, he redirected his attention to the plane, where now a cheerful-looking blonde in a sunny yellow dress was striding down the ramp, an anticipatory look on her face. "That attractive young lady is Miss Harriet Winkler. She was recently engaged to Mr. Denny Palumbo." Roarke gave Leslie and Tattoo a significant look, but they stared blankly back at him, and he clarified, "Better known as one half of the performing act Denny and Trish."

"But Denny is married to Trish!" Tattoo protested.

"Not anymore," said Roarke. "They were divorced a few months ago; and Mr. Palumbo has been trying to put a new act together without her. He's on Fantasy Island right now, rehearsing for the premiere performance of Denny and His Dynamite Dolls." He caught Leslie's eye-roll and, amused, glanced at their newest guest. "Miss Winkler isn't sure she can trust Mr. Palumbo with his beautiful new partners; so she would love to be able to observe his every move unnoticed. Her fantasy, therefore, is to become...invisible."

Leslie's mouth fell open, right alongside that of Tattoo, who spouted incredulously, "Invisible?!" And on Roarke's nod, he asked the question Leslie was still amazed to hear out of him every few weekends: "Boss...can you really do that?"

But instead of his usual reaction, Roarke punned, "Let us just say that it remains to be seen." He grinned at Leslie's dirty look, accepted his wine flute and raised it. "My dear guests! I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

‡ ‡ ‡

"The Dynamite Dolls are certainly well named," Roarke observed diplomatically as he, Tattoo, Leslie and Harriet Winkler strolled past the open-air dining area, which was being outfitted as a stage for the weekend in order to provide a prime spot for the premiere of Denny Palumbo's new act. Because it was akin to a burlesque act in some ways, Leslie had never really heard of Denny and Trish, and had been debating trying to get the man's autograph. She was leaning farther and farther away from the idea, particularly now when a native toted a signboard past them advertising the new act. It bore a photograph of Palumbo with his two supporting performers, both of whom were curvy, buxom blondes—the sort of women Leslie privately thought had heads emptier than a well in a drought.

"If Denny's temptation-proof around those two...wild zonkers," Harriet Winkler said with a little giggle, "I know I'll have nothing to worry about."

Roarke remarked, "I'm surprised a lady as lovely as you should even have such a concern."

"Like you, Miss Winkler," Tattoo put in, and Roarke concurred as Leslie nodded.

"Oh, thanks. I just don't want this marriage to be a mistake for either one of us—you understand, Mr. Roarke," Harriet entreated.

"Completely, Miss Winkler," Roarke assured her. They paused in front of the sign advertising the act, which was just being secured in place by two dark-haired men.

Harriet beamed. "Oh, it looks great, Brutus!" she exclaimed.

Both men turned around; the one on the left, a shorter man with a mustache and a wide, somewhat toothy grin, lifted a hand with one finger tucked behind another and said, "Keep your fingers crossed, Calpurnia." He and Harriet grinned at each other; then Roarke ushered them away, but Leslie glanced once over her shoulder and saw "Brutus" gazing after Harriet with a sad, wistful look. _Great,_ Leslie thought, _a love triangle!_

"Who's that?" she asked as they headed back toward the bungalows.

Harriet grinned. "I've known Morty Green forever. He's Denny's manager—in fact, he introduced me to Denny. I'm just hoping I won't regret it."

Leslie made a noise of acknowledgment, deeming it the best part of discretion not to suggest aloud that it looked as if Morty certainly regretted it. They dropped off Harriet at her bungalow, then returned to the main house, where Ned Pringle was seated in one of the club chairs waiting for them. Roarke shook hands with him and suggested, "Tell me about your fantasy, Mr. Pringle, if you would. Your letter was quite short."

"Well, there's not much more to it than what I put in the letter," Pringle said with a shrug. "It's pretty straightforward. I've probably been in love with Velda Ferrini for years. I mean..." He shook his head. "The world is full of pretty girls—girls with their feet on the ground—and I have to fall for a beautiful snow bird. She doesn't even know I exist, Mr. Roarke. And why should she?" He stared at the promotional photograph he held, showing a lithe, sweet-faced, smiling young woman. "How will I ever get to meet her?"

"There is only one way, Mr. Pringle," Roarke said. "You must become a member of the Ferrini troupe."

"Me? A trapeze artist?" Pringle scoffed in amused disbelief. "Aw, c'mon, you've gotta be kidding."

"No, not at all," Roarke said and gave Tattoo a significant look. "By a fortunate coincidence, the Flying Ferrinis are at this moment in winter training, right here on Fantasy Island." Tattoo beamed as if in confirmation.

Pringle's expression grew shocked. "Here? Velda's here?"

Roarke arose and declaimed with a broad smile, "You will soar beside her on the trapeze..."

"Aw, c'mon, Mr. Roarke. To be an aerialist, you practically have to start in the cradle," the young man protested.

"You forget...this is Fantasy Island, Mr. Pringle." He took in Pringle's dawning look of understanding, smiled slightly, then came out from behind the desk, glancing back at Leslie, who sidled along behind, eager to see what would happen. "Now, if you'll come into this room, Mr. Pringle, your adventure will begin." He closed the door behind Leslie, the last one into the time-travel room, and winked at her. She smiled back, then glanced around; the room was unusually bare of trappings, containing only a safety net, a flexible rope ladder with white plastic rungs, and in the corner, a mannequin suspended from the ceiling as if he were a trapeze artist captured in mid-flip. A string of red and white triangular pennants decorated the wall at the right of the door.

"Will you take this pouch, please?" Roarke prompted, at which Tattoo handed over a small square object, in some sparkly gold material, that looked like a miniature pillow. Pringle took it and gave Roarke a puzzled look; Roarke instructed, "Dust some into the palms of your hands."

"It looks like the kind of powder trapeze performers use to help their grip," Pringle said, doing as bidden.

"But this is a very special powder, Mr. Pringle," Roarke told him in a low tone.

"You want to fly, don't you?" Tattoo queried.

"Sure," Pringle said, "but it doesn't seem possible."

Roarke took in his skeptical look and said, still in that low voice, "If you have enough faith and courage, Mr. Pringle...anything is possible." So saying, he raised one hand in a gesture toward the rope ladder. Pringle eyed it, then drew in a breath and began to climb, as a misty fog billowed in from nowhere. Leslie managed to refrain from making a semi-sarcastic remark about how much dry ice her guardian used every year for such effects; she had made the mistake of making just such a snarky joke over the summer, and the guest at that time had laughed so hard that he'd made a long string of wisecracks about cheap special effects. It had been a while before Roarke had been able to see the humorous side of that one; she had no intention of repeating that error today.

They watched Pringle climb the ladder toward the ceiling till the room was too full of cloudy mist to see anything; Leslie had to put her hand up against the tip of her nose before she could see it. When the sounds of Pringle's shoes hitting each rung disappeared, the mist began to clear, and they all saw that both Pringle and the ladder were gone.

Tattoo coughed and waved away some of the mist, which seemed to be a little thicker near the floor. "Boss, maybe from now on you could try making the mist come out from the ceiling," he suggested. "I feel like I'm in the middle of a fire sometimes."

Roarke peered at him, sighed a little, and said with a sidelong glance at Leslie, "Perhaps next time I'll hide the dry ice behind the air-conditioning vents."

Leslie groaned. "Mr. Roarke, it's been almost six months. I wish you'd let me live that down, after all this time." She left the room without waiting for his response, though she did hear Tattoo laugh and Roarke shush him.

The trio headed back for Harriet Winkler's bungalow mostly in silence; when they got there, Roarke invited her for a walk, and she agreed, looking a bit puzzled but amenable. She greeted Tattoo and then Leslie, who smiled back and decided to satisfy her curiosity. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"No, go right ahead," Harriet invited.

Leslie cleared her throat. "Why did Morty Green call you Calpurnia?"

"Brutus and Calpurnia are...pet names, I guess you'd call them. Those are the parts we played when we did _Julius Caesar_ in ninth-grade English." Harriet chuckled as she said this last, and Leslie grinned with understanding. "I've known Morty all my life."

"I see," Roarke said.

"In fact, he introduced me to Denny, like I said before," Harriet told them.

"Were you starstruck?" Tattoo wanted to know.

Harriet smiled. "Oh...no, not at first. Actually, Denny had a bad reputation for being a girl-chaser when he was married to Trish. Morty said that she was always clawing at him... but I guess they were just unhappy and acting kind of childish."

"Yes," Roarke mused, "unhappiness is a time-honored justification for infidelity. But of course, you will never give Mr. Palumbo cause to be less than joyful, when you become his wife." Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other; his tone seemed almost challenging.

Harriet grew serious. "I want a good, lasting marriage, Mr. Roarke. And it wouldn't be fair to Denny if I go into it having any doubts about him."

"Most commendable," Roarke lauded, then gestured to the bungalow behind them. "Shall we step inside?"

Once there, Leslie, on Roarke's gesture, reached inside a small round lidded box made of brass filigree and lifted out a small crystal bottle hanging from a long silver chain; this she handed to her guardian as Harriet watched curiously. "Thank you, Leslie. There is a fluid in this vial, Miss Winkler, which, when sipped, will render you completely invisible, for short periods of time." Leslie wondered just how short; she could still remember an incident that past spring in which Tattoo had drunk a test version of this very same potion and remained unseen for most of a weekend.

Tattoo apparently recalled it too, for he peered up at Roarke and asked anxiously, "Boss, is it dangerous?"

"Uh, no, no, no, Tattoo...not in itself. Only in the consequences of Miss Winkler's own actions while she is invisible," Roarke explained, eyes on Harriet as he spoke, as if in mild warning.

Harriet seemed to be slightly flustered. "Oh...I—I'll take that responsibility, Mr. Roarke," she said with a nervous but determined grin.

Roarke let out a small amused chuckle and handed her the vial. "Very well then." He nodded at Harriet, tilting his upper torso forward in a gesture that invited her to go ahead and partake of the liquid; with one last _here we go_ giggle, Harriet tipped the vial up and took a small swallow of its contents. For a second or two she looked a little startled, as if she could feel the stuff dropping into her stomach; then she simply faded from view, so that only her clothing could be seen hovering in mid-air as if being displayed on a glass mannequin.

Tattoo blinked; Leslie shoved her hands into the pockets hidden in her skirt, all too well reminded of Tattoo's adventure with this stuff. As Tattoo peered at Roarke in amazement, Harriet remarked, "I don't feel any different."

"But you appear different," Roarke said, nodding at her again.

The sleeves of Harriet's dress moved up and the skirt flared out as she examined her-self. "Oh...it worked!" she exclaimed in delight. "But my clothes...this looks silly!"

"Oh, I am sorry, Miss Winkler...I forgot to mention that, uh...the potion does not affect clothing...no. To be completely invisible, you must, uh...remove all garments."

Tattoo shot Roarke a surprised look; Leslie stared at him in disbelief, ready with a quick string of indignant questions, but holding them back solely for Harriet's sake. Harriet herself hesitated no more than a second or two before slowly shrugging off her dress and underclothing while her hosts looked on. Tattoo's gaze was particularly avid; Roarke whispered his name in admonishment and clucked his tongue, while Leslie shook her head, sure she herself could never undress in front of anyone else like that, no matter whether they could see her or not. Tattoo looked momentarily remorseful, but Leslie noticed that his gaze went right back to Harriet anyway.

The last item of clothing dropped to the floor and Harriet's voice groaned, "If you could see me now, you'd be watching me blush from my head to my toenails." Roarke just nodded, looking solicitous; then Harriet sneezed, surprising Leslie.

 _"À_ _vos souhaits,"_ said Tattoo automatically. Roarke pulled out a hanky and offered it to Harriet—reaching behind Tattoo to do it, and making Tattoo and Leslie stare at each other in bewilderment.

"Another thing you forgot to mention, Mr. Roarke," Harriet said, sneezed again, rubbed her nose and handed the hanky back to him. "It's drafty."

"Excuse me, please," Roarke said, squeezing between Tattoo and the invisible Harriet to go to the raised dining area; again Tattoo and Leslie stared at each other, then at Roarke, both with scowls of dawning suspicion. Going to the thermostat, Roarke said, "I should have adjusted the air conditioner for this occasion." He smiled apologetically at some point well over Tattoo's head and fiddled with the thermostat for a moment.

The door opened, and Harriet's voice sang out, "Well, here goes nothing!" before it closed again. Leslie took in the men's expressions; Tattoo was staring after the departed Harriet with a lingering frown, while Roarke looked overly cheerful—a very unusual expression on him. They heard a muffled sneeze from outside as Roarke settled on the back of the sofa nearby, the cheery look melting into one of carefully controlled... _consternation_ was the only word Leslie could think of to describe it.

"Boss, the handkerchief—you gave it right to her!" Tattoo said, eyes wide. "How did you know where she was?"

Roarke simply stared at him, that look on his face never wavering; Leslie gasped and blurted out, "Holy _paradise_ , Mr. Roarke—you could _see_ her, couldn't you!"

Roarke turned the look on her, and Tattoo's face filled with shock. "Oh no," he breathed. "Boss—is Leslie right? You can really see her?"

Roarke merely blinked a few times, a bare touch of embarrassment blooming over his features as he made a show of putting the hanky back into an inner jacket pocket. Tattoo sucked in a gasp and hissed in admonishment, "Boss!" To which Roarke simply got up and walked out of the bungalow, leaving Leslie and Tattoo gaping after him before turning their shocked looks on each other.

Leslie had forgotten all her questions. "I can't believe that! He worked on that potion for weeks after you took it by accident—and he didn't bother to remove that aspect of it?"

"He could've at least let me see her too," Tattoo grumbled.

Leslie's eyes popped and she gawked at him in outrage. "Tattoo, you really should be ashamed of yourself," she snapped. "At least Mr. Roarke _pretended_ he was!" She stalked out in her guardian's wake, without bothering to see if Tattoo followed her.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § - December 6, 1980

"You know," Leslie said at lunch, "I think you really goofed on that potion, Mr. Roarke. Why would you leave it so that you could see the person who took it? It's lucky for you Miss Winkler didn't realize you could see her in the...well, in her birthday suit."

"She _should_ have realized it," Tattoo said with great indignation, which Leslie suspected stemmed from his disappointment at not being able to see Harriet in that state himself, rather than from any outrage on Harriet's behalf. "I can't believe she didn't. She should have known you could see her the second you gave her that handkerchief without having to ask her where she was standing."

"Well, she didn't," Leslie said. "I can't believe it either, but she didn't. I guess she was either too distracted by her mission, or just too cold from the air conditioning. Either way, you really got lucky, Mr. Roarke. But why would you do that?"

Roarke had been watching them with something like resignation in his dark eyes, and released a sigh. "Are you two quite finished?" he inquired, his tone arid.

Tattoo shrugged; Leslie made a face. "Not really—I've got some other questions for you too. But that one's really bugging me. All the time you spent messing with that stuff since Tattoo drank it by accident last spring, and you couldn't have made it work so that clothes would be invisible too? I mean, it did back then."

"Try as I might, no," said Roarke with a touch of sarcastic impatience. "As you have observed, Leslie Susan, I worked on the potion throughout the summer and fall, but nothing I could do would eliminate or change that particular quirk. I simply had to accept that if I didn't want the guest to remain invisible for inconveniently long periods, that little defect must remain. If I'd had more time, I might have found some way to correct it; unfortunately, you scheduled Miss Winkler's fantasy for this weekend, and I ran out of time to experiment with it any further."

Leslie sighed. "Oh, all right. I guess at least it's a good thing you're the only one who can still see the person who takes the potion. But what I really want to know now is, why couldn't you see Tattoo after he took it?"

"Tattoo drank the potion in its earliest experimental stage," Roarke said. "It was too strong in that form. I have good reasons for preferring to see the person who uses the potion, which I trust I need not go into merely to satisfy your overwhelming curiosity. In any case, I have no intentions of tinkering with the formula any further; there are far too many other matters requiring attention to allow me to spend time continually trying to refine it. It will simply have to serve in its present iteration. Now, if the two of you would kindly cease excoriating me for something I cannot alter, I would greatly appreciate it."

Tattoo shrugged and sighed, and Leslie gave in with some reluctance. "It just seemed really intrusive, that's all." She fielded Roarke's warning look and raised both hands in surrender. "Sorry. But you..." She turned to Tattoo. "So are you ashamed yet?"

"Over what?" Roarke asked when Tattoo shot her a dirty look.

"He was mad that he couldn't see Miss Winkler in the altogether too," she said.

Roarke shook his head. "Tattoo," he scolded mildly. "As I'm sure you are well aware, I have equally good reasons for _not_ allowing you to see our guests in that state."

"You know, you never let me have any fun around here," Tattoo groused. "I never get to have a drink with the guests, I don't get to see the ladies who use invisible potions, and I can't have my favorite fantasy about becoming rich. Maybe if I actually paid for a fantasy like that, you might let me do some of that stuff."

"You're disqualified," Leslie said. "You're an employee."

Roarke laughed. "That's quite enough, Leslie. Have you two finished eating? We need to go to the pool and check on things there."

Once there, they settled at a small round table covered with a fire-engine-red cloth, and Roarke ordered a drink which he pointedly made nonalcoholic when he noticed Tattoo gearing up to protest again about being forbidden to imbibe. However, before Roarke could take the first sip, Harriet Winkler herself accosted them, calling his name; he arose and greeted her before taking in her distraught expression. "You look unhappy! Please sit down, won't you?" He gestured at the nearest empty chair, which Harriet took, and inquired with concern, "Isn't your fantasy going well?"

"Oh...to tell the truth, Mr. Roarke, I feel like such a sneak." On Roarke's quizzical look, she groaned, "My fantasy was selfish and self-centered...and I deserve what I got." She looked over at a nearby umbrella-shaded table, where an agitated Denny Palumbo was knocking back a fresh drink. "Denny doesn't deserve what I gave him. I've gotta make it right somehow!"

"Make what right, Miss Winkler?" Roarke asked, confused.

"Please, Mr. Roarke—let Denny play the Fantasy Island Playhouse as a solo act!"

Tattoo spoke up then, reminding Roarke, "Boss, the contracts call for an ensemble act." Roarke nodded confirmation.

"That's right, Tattoo. I'm afraid there is nothing I can do for you, Miss Winkler, I'm terribly sorry." He paused, noting that Harriet looked as though she were about to cry. "Of course, Mr. Morty Green might be able to arrange a last-minute substitution for the, uh, Dynamite Dolls; otherwise..." He trailed off and shook his head regretfully.

"What happened to the Dynamite Dolls, anyway?" Leslie asked.

Harriet cleared her throat. "Well, I caught them trying to put the make on Denny while they were rehearsing. So I smacked Rose's rear end with a cane, and she blamed Denny and quit. Then Denny had to throw out Roseanna when she tried to seduce him, and she quit too. So I know he's loyal at least, but now he doesn't have an act."

"Oh." Leslie bit her lip. "Well, maybe he's better off without them."

"That may be, but where can Morty possibly get a substitution for those two?" asked Harriet in despair.

Leslie shrugged, then noticed that Tattoo's attention was trained somewhere else. Roarke saw it too, just as Tattoo leaned forward and murmured, "Boss, isn't that Trish—Denny's ex-wife—with Mr. Green?"

Roarke twisted in his chair to look that way, with a sidelong glance at Harriet, and remarked as if in great surprise, "Why, yes!" Leslie watched Morty Green, accompanied by an annoyed-looking woman in a green dress and a white hat, rounding the pool's perimeter. "And if I am not mistaken, the gentleman with them is her new fiancé." It was then that Leslie noticed the staid-looking man in a powder-blue suit right behind Morty and Trish; he struck her as an accountant or a lawyer.

Harriet stared at the approaching trio in horror. "Oh no! Why would she come here? She and Denny hate each other!" As she spoke, Morty, Trish and the suit stopped beside Denny's table, and they heard Morty clear his throat; all three watched the unfolding scene, as if compelled by some unassailable force.

"Now don't yell, but look who's here," Morty said. Denny looked around, spotted Trish and let out a loud squawk, at which Morty reprimanded him, "I told ya not to yell."

Trish pulled off her hat and remarked sarcastically, "Well, my my my...I see you haven't lost your way with words, Denny." Denny just shook his head disgustedly.

"Well, isn't it nice to bring old friends together," Morty said hopefully. "See, I ran into Trish at the bar, and I thought, what the heck—wouldn't it be great if I brought her over here to say howdy?" He took a seat, grinning his toothy grin.

"I wouldn't say howdy to her if I was Gene Autry's son," Denny retorted. Thwarted, Trish looked away, and Denny took in her companion. "Who's the unlucky man?"

Trish glared at him. "This happens to be Kenneth DeJong, of the DeJong, Hendricks and DeKoven investment bankers—my future husband." She gave Denny a smug look.

"How do you do?" DeJong inquired politely.

"Better than you, obviously," said Denny and took another belt from his drink.

Morty still seemed to think there was some chance of salvaging the situation and suggested too heartily, "Well! Let's all act like adults and bury the hatchet!"

As he got to his feet, Trish sniped coolly, "Fine. I know exactly where."

"I mean," Morty said calmly, "let's address ourselves to the problem at hand. Denny needs a new partner here to do the show; it's a very important gig, because some Vegas bookers are coming here to check him out. And I was thinking..." Here he grew expansive and enthusiastic. "Wouldn't it be great if this would mark the return of Denny and Trish!"

Trish scoffed and shot back, "Tell woman-chasing Mr. Palumbo that I wouldn't work with him again if he came crawling to me on his hands and knees, naked, with a flower between his teeth!" She stomped a foot to punctuate this and glared at Denny.

Denny had had enough and got up with a quick glare at Trish before addressing Morty. "And you can tell Bimbo DePlenty here that I wouldn't set one foot on a stage with her until she puts a gag in her big mouth for five minutes—which for her is a physical impossibility!" At that, Trish whipped around and stalked away, with Kenneth DeJong right behind her.

"Trish, at least talk to him!" Morty yelled after her, to no avail.

"Aw, I'm gonna get smashed," grunted Denny and stalked out of the pool area.

"Look, you two need each other whether you know it or not!" Morty shouted, but again his words went in vain.

"Wow," said Leslie, astonished. She didn't think she had ever seen such a blatant display of antagonism before, even between her own parents.

Harriet turned desperately to Roarke. "Mr. Roarke...Denny _has_ to play his date here. Show business is his life! It's Trish's life too—she'd be bored to death without it!"

"But you can see how they feel about each other," Roarke reminded her.

Harriet considered it, then mumbled, "Well, maybe I can change that."

Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo looked at one another, then at her. "You can?"

"I've got to. I love him. And if working with Trish again makes him happy, then that's what'll have to happen." She drew in a breath and groaned, "But how'll I do it?"

Roarke smiled slightly. "Well, they just told us what would make them forgive each other—a gag for her, and a flower in his teeth."

"Naked," added Leslie with a skeptical grin in her guardian's direction; he smiled wryly and took a sip of his drink. Harriet reached down to finger the vial that hung on its chain around her neck; Roarke noticed, winked at Leslie and Tattoo, and settled back in his chair with a faint smile.

§ § § - December 7, 1980

It was the first chance Roarke had taken to check on Ned Pringle's fantasy, and with Tattoo supervising the final setup of the stage area for the Vegas bookers, Roarke took Leslie with him to the practice grounds where the Ferrini family was training. They watched, unnoticed, for some time, till Mario Ferrini set about making an announcement for several reporters from both print and broadcast media. It wasn't till Velda Ferrini bailed out and landed in the safety net, however, that the noise of swinging trapezes and rattling support poles ceased enough for them to hear him. "Ladies and gentlemen, here on the island, we do not have to conform to United States regulations...so the Flying Ferrinis will work without the safety net."

Leslie stared at her guardian. "Mr. Roarke, are you gonna let him get away with that? I mean...it said in this morning's paper that he wants Mr. Pringle to do a quadruple somersault in mid-air! That's practically impossible, not to mention dangerous!"

"Now, young lady, where is _your_ faith?" Roarke admonished her. "I daresay you've been here long enough by now that you should have learned to trust in what I do and why I do it. The success or failure of Ned Pringle's fantasy is altogether out of my hands, as you well know. The decisions in regard to this fantasy are not mine to make."

She sighed to herself and stared apprehensively on as several islanders hired by the Ferrini family set about detaching the safety net from its hooks and let it fall to the ground; the reporters reacted audibly, and to one side, Velda Ferrini stared on anxiously, biting her lip, looking around as if trying to find someone who might help stop the whole thing. On the platform above, Ned Pringle waved to her, and she waved hesitantly back.

Leslie and Roarke watched Pringle pull the pouch Roarke had given him from the belt of his leotard—and then drop it. He stared at the ground with sudden horror as Mario Ferrini announced, "For the first time ever, anywhere, the Flying Ferrinis present the quadruple somersault!" He gestured at Pringle on the platform, and now all eyes were on the popcorn vendor, standing there gaping at the pouch on the ground far below.

"Mr. Roarke, what'll you—" began Leslie, only to turn to him and discover she was standing there alone. She could do no more than blink a couple of times before she heard the clacking of a trapeze above her, and looked up in time to see a performer clad in a white leotard swing himself onto the platform beside Pringle. She clapped both hands over her mouth and stared. _Geez, Mr. Roarke, really!_ she thought, shaking her head, but unable to keep from smiling for all that.

Faintly she heard him say, "The press is waiting, Mr. Pringle. What seems to be the problem?"

"I can't make it, Mr. Roarke!" Pringle gasped. "I dropped the pouch!" He pointed at the gold packet lying on the grass.

Roarke looked down at it and mused, "I see. Most unfortunate."

"What'm I doing up here?" groaned Pringle, staring desperately at him. "I must be out of my mind..."

"Well, it's a little late for self-analysis, Mr. Pringle, don't you think?"

"Velda was right...this is all a crazy dream. A groundling in love with a snow bird."

Roarke shook his head, smiling. "Every man has been in love with a snow bird somewhere, sometime in his life, Mr. Pringle."

"You gotta get me out of this, Mr. Roarke—"

"Oh, I'm afraid that's out of the question," Roarke said immediately. "Your fantasy must run to its natural conclusion. However, that need not be an unhappy one." He nodded at Pringle a couple of times, as if waiting for him to figure it out.

Just then a movement caught Leslie's eye and she noticed Mario Ferrini stride around the group of reporters and other spectators to find out what the delay was. Leslie watched with wide eyes; she distinctly recalled that Ferrini had suffered an accident a couple or three years before, one that had left him seriously injured. Since then he had walked with a cane and a noticeable limp. Yet here he was, walking perfectly! She scowled at him, hearing Roarke's voice from above: "Observe, Mr. Pringle." She looked up in time to see him gesture at Ferrini.

"What is he waiting for?" Ferrini demanded aloud.

"Isn't that strange?" Roarke commented. "He doesn't seem to be having trouble with his leg anymore." Sure enough, Ferrini stalked determinedly onto the grass, where the safety net had lain moments before, and grabbed the golden pouch, clearly intending to climb up to the platform and make Pringle go through with the stunt. Roarke smiled and reached for the swinging trapeze as it arced toward him. "Perhaps it was all in his mind." He paused long enough to watch Pringle stare thoughtfully at Ferrini, then said, "Good luck, Mr. Pringle," and grasped the trapeze swing, launching himself off the platform and sailing to the other side—only to vanish into nothing on the way.

"Mr. Roarke!" yelled Pringle, but there was no reply.

Beside her, Leslie sensed a presence, and stumbled back a step when she looked around and saw Roarke there, dressed in his usual white suit rather than the leotard he'd had on a few seconds ago. "You really have to tell me someday how you change clothes and appear and disappear like some kind of...of really advanced magician," she said.

Roarke grinned at her. "Perhaps I'll let you in on the secret one day. For now, let's find out what Mr. Pringle decides to do."

At that point they heard Ferrini's voice from overhead and both looked up. "What is wrong with you?" he growled.

"I changed my mind," Pringle informed him, calmly but firmly. "I'm not going through with this."

"You lost your nerve," Ferrini accused.

Pringle shot back, "Like you lost yours, Mario, after your fall? You came up the ladder just now like a monkey climbing a banana tree. Suddenly there's nothing wrong with your leg anymore. Maybe there never was, except in your mind."

"That's a lie!" Ferrini blustered.

"Is it, Mario? You used your accident to cop out! To avoid doing the quadruple again—just like you used me!"

Ferrini glared at him, breathing hard. "I oughta throw you offa here..."

"How about throwing yourself off, into the quadruple?" Pringle returned. He released the swing and folded Ferrini's hand around the golden powder bag. "Use this pouch. It's special." Roarke and Leslie watched him dust Ferrini's hands with the pouch. "You can do it," Pringle assured him.

They waited, looking on as Ferrini stared at his hands, then at Pringle, and then into the distance for a moment, as if reliving the fateful fall. "You can make it!" Pringle insisted.

Ferrini gave in at last and removed his cape, draping it over a rung of the ladder, while Pringle set up a platform for him to launch himself from. Those on the ground saw the change and stared as if spellbound; the senior Ferrini, father to Velda, Mario and three other sons, appeared from one of the tents and paused to stare in astonishment at Mario, who reached out a hand to catch the swing as it lifted toward him. Ferrini leaped off the platform, swung in a couple of huge arcs, then let go the trapeze and rolled through the air: once, twice, three and finally four full somersaults, before successfully grasping the hands of one of his brothers. Cheers and applause welled up; the elder Ferrini gaped in astonishment, Velda in sheer relief. Leslie stared in wonder at Roarke, who smiled broadly at her.

Pringle descended the ladder and was met at the bottom by Velda, who rushed up to him and kissed him hard before hugging him. Her father had seen her go, and now he came after her with long angry strides, his face a mask of outrage. "Velda!"

Velda and Pringle broke their kiss and stared at him; then Velda drew in a breath and announced, "Papa, Ned and I love each other, and you're just gonna have to get used to that."

"No!" hissed Ferrini. "You get out of my sight, before I break your neck!"

Mario clambered down the last few rungs of the ladder and hit the ground. "Papa, no," he urged, going to the older man and grasping his arm. "Papa—Papa, you can't keep Velda caged up forever. And Ned—he's gonna work with us. Papa, face it, you're not getting any younger; one day you're gonna want to retire. Somebody has to take over the act, manage it...Ned knows the circus; I had him checked out when he first came to us. Papa, it's...it's time for this family to have some...some new blood."

"Papa, please," Velda begged softly.

Ferrini stared at them, his face still full of denial, but beginning to soften a bit in the wake of Mario's unexpected support of Pringle. At last he nodded. "Okay," he whispered, seemed to gather himself and added, "Maybe we start a new generation of Ferrinis, eh?"

Thrilled, Velda ran to him and hugged him; Mario went to Pringle and said, "Welcome to the family." Leslie grinned at that; Roarke smiled, then ushered her away before anyone caught them watching.

When they got back to the main house, Tattoo had returned and was just hanging up the phone as they walked in. "Oh, boss—good, you're back. I just finished talking to Miss Winkler. She says she's leaving right away. I think maybe you better go see her."

Roarke agreed, and Leslie hurried out with him before he decided to tell her to stay; but he seemed to be preoccupied with Harriet's fantasy and didn't object. In fact, his concern turned out to be justified, for when they let themselves into the bungalow, they could see Harriet already packing her bags. "Miss Winkler," Roarke called, crossing the main room to the bedroom. "Tattoo told me you called, but I had no idea you were leaving so soon!"

"Well, thanks to my fantasy, I found out more than I bargained for," Harriet said in a high voice that sounded too close to breaking down. "Denny can be trusted all right...but not to love me, because...he never stopped loving Trish in the first place." She managed a self-deprecating smile.

Roarke said with sympathy, "Then it means he never was right for you, doesn't it?"

Harriet turned to stare at him; when he prompted her, she admitted, "Yes, it does." Roarke nodded, and she finally said, "And I really hope they'll both be happy."

"You are an exceptional young lady, Miss Winkler," Roarke said quietly. Leslie had to admit to being impressed; she wasn't sure she could be that generous in a similar situation, and hoped she never had to face such a thing. "I shall try to arrange an early flight to the mainland for you. Will you excuse me? Come, Leslie." They turned to leave the bungalow, only to see Morty Green coming through the room. "Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Green," Roarke said warmly, paused long enough to glance back at Harriet, and then ushered Leslie out with a quick gesture.

"I guess you saw it too, Mr. Roarke," Leslie remarked when they were well away from the bungalow.

"Saw what?" Roarke asked, without slowing at all, though he did spare her a questioning look.

"That Morty Green's got it bad for Calpurnia...I mean, Harriet Winkler," Leslie said, grinning sheepishly at her slip. "I could tell right from the start when I saw him staring after her yesterday morning, after we met him the first time."

"Indeed!" said Roarke, sounding impressed. "Then you're becoming quite an observant young lady, Leslie! Very good!" He smiled, and she beamed back, feeling quite pleased with herself. "You may yet turn out to be a better judge of human emotion than you realize. Perhaps this evening we'll go to see the reunited Denny and Trish—and if neither of us is mistaken, we're likely to see Mr. Green and Miss Winkler there together, too."

"Let's hope so. I'd hate to see this island's record for happy endings get spoiled," said Leslie teasingly, and he laughed and took her hand to guide her along.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § - December 8, 1980

"Ah, Mr. Pringle," Roarke greeted their first two guests as they alighted from the rover. "The daring young man has come back to earth with his snow bird. Miss Ferrini." Velda Ferrini nodded to him.

"We're both very grateful, Mr. Roarke," Pringle said quietly.

"Are you gonna go back to your traveling circus?" Tattoo asked.

Pringle grinned. "Just long enough to sell the popcorn concession."

"Then we join the rest of the family in Chicago for their opening," added Velda, "and our wedding."

"I wish you both great happiness," Roarke said with a broad smile, and they thanked him and made their farewells, heading for the plane ramp hand in hand.

"Another happy ending," said Tattoo with satisfaction.

"Just the kind you like," Leslie agreed, grinning at him.

"Indeed, Tattoo," Roarke remarked and smiled again. "A man never knows what he can achieve until he reaches for a star." Tattoo nodded thoughtfully, looking impressed by this little aphorism; Roarke and Leslie grinned, then turned to meet the second rover.

"Ah, Miss Winkler, Mr. Green...or is it once again Calpurnia and Brutus?" Roarke inquired teasingly.

Harriet grinned. "Well, either way, Mr. Roarke, my fantasy has come true."

"You too, Mr. Green?" Tattoo asked.

"Let's say the best thing that ever happened to me was going to the Hot Springs Lagoon," Morty told him, and he and Harriet shared a conspiratorial laugh. Once again they traded thanks and farewells, returning their goodbye waves.

"Ah," murmured Roarke. "As you have remarked, Tattoo, another happy ending."

"You're right, boss," Tattoo said. "A man never knows what he can achieve in a hot lagoon." He shot a look after Morty and Harriet. Roarke gave him a surprised look, then grinned, while Leslie snickered and shook her head.

§ § § - October 10, 2009

"This is Tattoo, the artist?" Anna-Kristina asked through her laughter as they wound up the narrative. "I have to admit, I never realized till now that he had another life before the art gallery he made so famous."

"Your father purchased a painting of his once," Christian told her. "It was over fifteen years ago when your parents bought some artwork in Paris, presumably from his gallery. One of them was by Tattoo, and it was the only one in the lot that appealed to me, so Arnulf tried to sell it to me for some utterly ridiculous sum. However, I don't know what happened to those paintings; I thought you might have some idea, Stina."

His niece considered it, then shook her head. "I don't know, really. I can't remember seeing them at all. I do remember Mamma and Pappa going to Paris and buying some art, but somehow I never saw it. Maybe we should speak with Uncle Carl Johan and see if he knows what happened to them. I would think Briella would have done something with them, but the only picture I can remember seeing in the royal suite was in the bedroom—the enlargement of the panorama that Daniel took for her down around Mossedal. Since we can't ask Briella now, we'll have to see if Uncle Carl Johan can find them."

Christian nodded. "That's probably wise. Tattoo's painting, at least, would be worth a fair amount of money, so it should receive the proper care." He looked at Roarke and Leslie, laughed suddenly and remarked, "But Stina's right. Hearing these tales of his antics while he was living here on the island paints a far different picture of him from the one he cultivated after returning to France. If you'll excuse the pun..." His grin was sheepish, eliciting a laugh from Roarke and a playful groan from Leslie.

"So what other good memories do you have?" Anna-Kristina asked, clearly taking advantage of the lull in the conversation. "You seem to have met quite a lot of famous people on this island. I always mean to ask if I can look through your autograph book, Aunt Leslie, and I never manage to remember."

Leslie grinned. "When you get out of the hospital, or when you've made it through the fifteen-day waiting period—whichever comes first—I'll be glad to show it to you. In fact, it's full now, after all these years, so Christian gave me another one for my birthday this year. Camille made me get it autographed by all the members of Shock Treatment when they were here this past summer, but I think she did it just so she'd have some excuse to come backstage with me and get the autograph she never got from that one guy." She and Christian both laughed; Roarke chuckled. "Anyway...funny you should ask; just two weeks after the fantasy we just told you about, we got another celebrity looking for a fantasy."

§ § § - December 20, 1980

"Smiles, everyone, smiles!" Roarke urged, as was his weekly habit, and motioned the band and dancers into action. Leslie had been running slightly late that morning and was still trying to get the black cuff on the sleeve of her weekend dress buttoned; Roarke, seeing her problem finally, reached over and deftly secured it for her.

"Thanks, Mr. Roarke," she said with a relieved smile. "That probably would've bugged me all day long. Oh...and who's that?" She had just spied their first guest stepping out of the plane's hatch and coming down the ramp with purpose, buttoning his jacket on the way.

"Boss, isn't that Mr. Culshaw?" Tattoo queried.

"Mr. Allan Culshaw, yes," said Roarke, watching the tall, squarely built man approaching them.

"I remember seeing his name on your list," Tattoo remarked, "but you didn't say where he came from." Leslie looked at him with some surprise; Roarke didn't always reveal the hometowns of their guests, so she didn't find this particularly unusual.

Even so, Roarke's response surprised her. "From a very long way off, Tattoo."

"He doesn't seem very happy to be here," Tattoo observed as Culshaw received a lei from one of the native girls but merely submitted, with a grim countenance, to her kiss on his cheek. He did refuse the drink, Leslie noted, as Roarke spoke.

"Mr. Culshaw has not had a single moment of happiness in an entire year. All he asks for now is peace of mind, and of the spirit."

"Some fantasy," said Tattoo derisively. "Boss, how're you gonna do that?"

"I'd think granting peace of mind would be one of the hardest kinds of fantasies there could possibly be," Leslie agreed. "What would you have to do?"

"I am arranging a reunion with three people from his past, and giving him an oppor-tunity to prove he is not what they think he is—a thief and a coward." At this, Tattoo and Leslie exchanged glances; this would be a difficult fantasy under any circumstances.

Now a blonde woman nearly as tall as Allan Culshaw disembarked from the seaplane and started down the ramp; she had a familiar face, and both Leslie and Tattoo lit with recognition. "Boss, I know that lady," Tattoo exclaimed.

"Me too," Leslie put in. "That's Susan Lohman, the singer!"

"She's a very big star," Tattoo went on before Roarke could comment. "Movies, musical comedy, records—she's a wonderful artist!"

Surprised, Roarke stared at him. "Tattoo, I had no knowledge of your interest in that kind of music!"

"Oh yes—I saw her on the stage in a wonderful show, _Autumn Heart_ , by Edmond Dumont," Tattoo explained with a broad smile.

"Really, Tattoo!" said Roarke, impressed, trading a glance with an equally impressed Leslie. "You surprise me."

Tattoo shrugged and admitted with some reluctance, "Well, I was dating the wardrobe girl..."

"Should've known," Leslie grumbled good-naturedly, grinning.

With a mildly dirty look at her, Tattoo turned to his boss. "Miss Lohman...she's so famous, so rich—why does she need a fantasy?"

"Oh, everyone has a fantasy, Tattoo," Roarke reminded him. "And Miss Lohman's is to meet the composer whose music has enthralled her over the years and lifted her to the heights of stardom—Mr. Edmond Dumont himself."

"You mean she's never met him?" asked Tattoo in surprise.

"No, Tattoo. Very few have," murmured Roarke, gazing absently in Susan Lohman's direction. "I am afraid that Miss Lohman is about to undergo the most bizarre experience Fantasy Island has ever known." At this Leslie and Tattoo peered at him, then at each other, with some unease, before schooling their features as a native girl arrived with Roarke's wine flute and he raised it in toast.

‡ ‡ ‡

In about an hour Allan Culshaw met Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie outside at a small round white table in the yard beside the main house; a native girl brought out an elegant silver teapot and a tall glass of pineapple juice, mixed with ginger ale, for Leslie. Roarke smiled as she put the teapot on a tray in the middle of the table. "Thank you, Mahana." He picked up the pot and filled teacups. "Now then, Mr. Culshaw, let me see if I have the facts straight. You were the pilot of a private aircraft which crashed in a remote area, a wilderness. Three people who were among your passengers accuse you of abandoning them there, leaving them to die. Am I correct?"

"Yes, but it's not true," said Culshaw with quiet, flat calm.

"It isn't going to be easy to convince them," Roarke pointed out.

Tattoo nodded, adding, "You can't expect your enemies to take your word for it."

From a pocket, Allan Culshaw silently withdrew a burgundy-colored velvet drawstring bag, and removed three small objects from inside it. "White feathers?" Leslie asked blankly, staring at them as Culshaw gave them to Roarke.

"The traditional symbol of cowardice," Roarke explained to her, and she compressed her lips for a second or two, exchanging a glance with Tattoo.

Culshaw explained, "I've been carrying them all these months as a badge of shame, to remind me of what I must do. My enemies, as you call them, the three people who branded me as a deserter, were once my dearest friends, Mr. Roarke. I know that they'll believe me if I can just tell them, face to face, what really happened. And I'm gonna ask each of them to accept one of those as a symbol of my innocence."

"I see," Roarke said, settling back in his chair. "You say you will tell them what really happened. The problem is, Mr. Culshaw, can you be sure of that yourself? The plane crash occurred exactly one year ago today, and you were hurt—a head injury, a concussion."

"Yeah, well, uh...some of the facts _are_ a little hazy," Culshaw conceded.

Roarke nodded. "Exactly. A concussion always involves a loss of memory." He paused for a moment, then trained his gaze on his ward. "Leslie?"

From her lap, where it had sat half hidden in her skirt, Leslie produced a small, round, gleaming silver box, which she set in front of her guardian. "Thank you," he said as she lifted its lid and withdrew a plain round brushed-silver pendant, larger than a silver-dollar coin, on a chain and handed it to him. "This pendant has special powers, Mr. Culshaw. It enables the wearer to recall past events of his or her life precisely as they happened." His voice slowed and lowered to a nearly hypnotic cadence; Culshaw's head tilted to one side as if he were reacting to being entranced. "To actually relive them—and most importantly, to share the experience with others."

Tattoo rounded Roarke's chair, taking the necklace from Roarke and going to loop it around Culshaw's neck. "All you have to do is to wear the pendant."

"Concentrate on it," Roarke concluded, "and you will have total recall."

Culshaw glanced down at the pendant as Tattoo fastened the chain and murmured gratefully, "That's fantastic."

Roarke shifted in his chair and studied their guest intently. "I must remind you of the one condition which I am obliged to impose: no physical violence. No matter what happens to you, whatever dangers you find yourself in, however much you are provoked—you are not to strike back, or your fantasy will end instantly."

Culshaw considered this for a second, then nodded and said placidly, "All right, I accept that condition." As Roarke acknowledged this, Culshaw almost grinned. "Now where can I find my friends?"

Roarke smiled back, while Tattoo gazed on with that sphinxlike expression Leslie had learned to despise on him because it was such an excellent concealer of anything Tattoo was thinking or feeling. Chuckling slightly, Roarke said, "Be patient just a little longer, Mr. Culshaw. Why don't you go to the bar, have a refreshment, huh?"

"That's not a bad idea," Culshaw noted, rising. "Been quite a while since I had a good belt." This struck Leslie as odd, since Culshaw had not touched his teacup the entire time they'd been sitting there, though she herself had nearly finished her own drink. Shrugging mentally, she decided tea must not have appealed to Culshaw, and watched as their guest shook hands with her guardian. "Mr. Roarke, I'm very grateful," he said simply, and with that and a quick smile at Leslie, departed. The trio looked at one another in silence; Leslie wondered why Roarke and Tattoo both looked so concerned.

Before she could ask, though, Roarke checked his gold pocket watch and snapped it closed, replacing it in his vest pocket. "Well, it's time for us to meet Miss Lohman. Leslie, I suggest that if you intend to obtain the lady's autograph, you get your book now." He grinned indulgently at her as she jumped to her feet and dashed into the house and up to her room to retrieve the autograph book.

Susan Lohman turned out to be cheerful, enthusiastic and outgoing, a very personable and friendly sort who willingly scrawled her name in Leslie's book and laughed when Leslie told her that her middle name was Susan. "Your mother had good taste," she said, gently teasing, and Leslie giggled. "Well, Mr. Roarke, I'm ready—no use in stalling."

"Very well," Roarke agreed, and with that they were soon on their way down the Ring Road to a point a bit west of the middle of the island. When Susan pressed Roarke for further details about their destination, Roarke hedged a moment before replying. "Miss Lohman, Mr. Dumont is a very private person. He's never seen in public, never photographed. Here on the island, Mr. Dumont has found the total seclusion he requires. Behind this wall is his private estate." They had come up a small, nearly invisible access road a few miles west of the Old Swamp Road that connected the northern and southern arms of the Ring Road, and after another mile or so of driving, pulled to a stop in front of an eight-foot-high boundary wall made of stone, topped with spirals of electrified wiring.

"I've sung every song he's ever written," Susan mused with an odd longing note in her voice, "and I've been wondering about him for years. I can hardly believe I'm gonna meet him at last—he must be a very beautiful person."

"Judging from his music, I'd agree with that," Leslie remarked, and Tattoo nodded.

Roarke smiled at their comments, then nodded once, and he and Susan stepped out of the car in front of a heavy double wooden door as tall as the wall it was set into. Susan took her bag out of the back as Tattoo and Leslie watched; they looked at each other once, neither especially eager to get out of the car.

Susan rounded the back of the car and stared at the wall and the forbidding door. "Well, I...I see what you mean about total seclusion," she remarked with a surprised smile, gazing along the wall and at the wire lining its top.

"Yes," Roarke said, "and remember that you are Mr. Dumont's first and only guest." Susan nodded understanding. "He may not observe the usual protocol."

Again Susan nodded. "I'll remember. Thank you." She shouldered her bag and took a step, then hesitated, catching herself. "Let me ask you one thing, Mr. Roarke..."

"Of course," prompted Roarke warmly.

"Do you believe it's possible to...to fall in love with a person be-because of his art?" asked Susan, as if laying bare a very secret thought she had never dared share with anyone else, no matter how close. "Are a man and his music one and the same thing?"

"You must answer that for yourself, Miss Lohman," was all Roarke would tell her, but it was all he _could_ tell her, Leslie realized. Susan got it too, for she nodded a little, then approached the door and peered through a small, dark, barred window while Roarke got back into the driver's seat and turned to give Leslie and Tattoo a particular signal that gave them a particular warning. As Susan searched for some way to announce her presence, Tattoo and Leslie grabbed the backs of the seats in front of them and closed their eyes.

"We're here," said Roarke after a mere few seconds, and they opened their eyes to find themselves and the rover sitting serenely in front of the main house. Tattoo blew out a breath and relaxed so totally that he fell against the back of his seat.

"I really hate that," he said with a look of mostly feigned irritation at Roarke.

Leslie looked at him in surprise. "You do? It's funny, it doesn't really bother me. I mean, I always expect to feel something when he does that, but I never do—not even any wind or something. It's like we were here all the time."

Tattoo grunted and muttered, "Well, I still don't like it. Come on, let's get out of this thing before the boss decides to send us someplace else in it...without him along for the ride." Leslie and Roarke both laughed, and they all got out of the car.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § - December 20, 1980

The day passed with little incident, outside of a few small routine problems at the hotel and the pool that were easily solved. Roarke pegged Leslie for luau duty that evening, and after they had eaten supper, she accompanied him there, managing as she somehow always did to sneak a few chunks of pineapple at the buffet. Roarke, of course, noticed and cast her a few stern but indulgent glances; the third time she did it, he finally chided, "Don't you think you'd better leave some for our guests?"

Leslie felt her face heat with a blush. "Oh, you know me...I love pineapple, I can't help it. But I...I'll try not to eat any more."

"You'll try?" Roarke repeated and laughed softly. "At least you're honest about it." He winked and she snickered sheepishly, trailing him along as he greeted a guest here, a vacationer there. Then they rounded a group chatting over drinks and saw Allan Culshaw sitting at a low table with a quietly attractive dark-haired woman; their heads were close together, and they were smiling, murmuring to each other, occasionally kissing gently. Roarke paused to gaze across the clearing, evidently checking on something, and Leslie caught Culshaw's eye. He brightened, as much as a man who seemed perpetually solemn could ever do so, and murmured something to his companion, kissed her and arose.

Roarke caught sight of him as he approached and smiled a greeting; Culshaw smiled back. "Mr. Roarke, could I speak to you for a minute?"

"Of course," Roarke agreed. "What about?"

"My enemies, what else?"

Roarke glanced at Leslie, seeming to sense that perhaps it was best if she were kept out of this particular loop, and smiled. "I'll be right back, child," he said, and she nodded, watching him stroll off with Culshaw, then sighing to herself and giving in to temptation long enough to hit up the buffet for pineapple one final time.

Roarke cast one more glance at Culshaw, who was twirling the two remaining feathers in his hand, and remarked, "Emerson once said that he who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare; and he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere."

"Well, that's...that's just the strange part of it," Culshaw said, stopping and facing him with some urgency. "My so-called enemies, Jake, Jesse...they mean nothing to me now. I've got Lena back, and that's all that matters." He studied his host for a moment, then said with intensity, "Mr. Roarke, I want to change my fantasy. All I ask is that I be allowed to stay here forever, with Lena."

"I am sorry," Roarke said, frowning, his voice steely, perhaps even a little incredulous. "You know that's quite impossible."

"I know now that it was really Lena that I came here for—" Culshaw began.

"Mr. Culshaw, you did not suffer amnesia. You actually drowned in that river..."

"No, no," Culshaw blurted, turning aside, raising a hand.

But Roarke refused to let him off the hook. "You were given a reprieve by a power infinitely greater than I, brought back to life for forty-eight hours. You _drowned_ , Mr. Culshaw!" He could see Culshaw's shoulders stiffening, then wilting with despair, and said softly, "This is the first time I have granted a fantasy to a dead man."

He waited, but it was clear that Culshaw was defeated. His guest stood staring into the trees in despair, then finally shuffled away, shoulders rounded, head hanging; all Roarke could do was look on after him. When Culshaw disappeared from his sight, Roarke turned at last and wandered back through the crowd, only half aware of his surroundings—at least till he caught Leslie at the buffet, talking to a couple of the natives who were staffing it. He had to smile. "Well, young lady, are you behaving yourself?"

She jumped and whipped around all in one motion, making him have to squelch a grin. "I...I ate only three more pineapple chunks, Mr. Roarke, I swear it!"

Roarke eyed her with mock suspicion, then relented and let out a laugh. "I wonder why it is that you exhibit this sort of enthusiasm for the local cuisine only when Mana'olana isn't present to witness it?" he teased her, and laughed again when she rolled her eyes. "I think you'd better come with me. Tomorrow will be a busy day, so I suggest you leave some room in your stomach for breakfast in the morning, in order to fortify yourself."

She sighed. "And maybe...just _maybe_...to get Mana'olana off my back for a change," she muttered, with little conviction. Roarke grinned and ushered her out of the clearing, leaving the sounds of the luau behind, walking home to the mournful serenade of a night crier backed up by crickets and spotlit by fireflies.

§ § § - December 21, 1980

They had barely finished breakfast and returned to Roarke's study Sunday morning before they were set upon by a visitor, decked out in a casual-looking business suit, who had clearly been in there waiting for some little time. When they came in, he arose and stalked toward them. "Mr. Roarke—" he began in a strident tone.

"Ah, Mr. Durwood," Roarke cut him off, genially shaking his hand. "What a pleasant surprise. Please have a seat, won't you?"

Ignoring this last suggestion, Durwood snapped, "Good, then you know who I am."

"But of course. Miss Susan Lohman's personal manager, the man who has guided her entire career. It is my business to know such matters, Mr. Durwood," Roarke said with a smile, extracting a ledger from a desk drawer and preparing to tackle some of the endless paperwork.

Durwood persisted, "Well, there's one thing you obviously don't know. Susan—Miss Lohman—is giving a concert in London the day after tomorrow." He leaned over the desk and spat out, _"London!"_ at Roarke as if the word carried some sort of threat.

"Indeed!" commented Roarke.

"That's wonderful, Mr. Durwood," Tattoo said, genuinely impressed.

Durwood glared at him. "Yeah, well, it's wonderful if she shows up! But if she doesn't, they'll sue us for breach!" His long, heavy features looked all the more forbidding in anger. "I've got to talk to her: _where is she?"_

Roarke, nodding faintly, informed him with polite firmness, "I'm sorry, I cannot divulge Miss Lohman's present whereabouts. But she will be back tomorrow."

Durwood reared back slightly, a horrified look on his face. "Tomorrow will be too late!" he exploded.

"Ah," Roarke said, and seemed to shrug without actually doing so. "I regret to say that is the best I can do, Mr. Durwood."

Nothing daunted, Durwood retorted, "Well, I'll find her, Mr. Roarke—your island can't be that big!" With that, he spun around and left the house. Roarke frowned with surprise and looked at Tattoo, who affected an "oh well" expression.

Leslie snorted after the departed man. "Ha," she said. "Good luck to him getting there. I go down that side of the island practically every day and I always, _always_ miss that little access road to the Dumont estate. I mean, I didn't even know it was there till we drove Miss Lohman over there yesterday. And he thinks he's gonna find her? That's a laugh."

Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other again, this time with amusement, and Roarke remarked, "You're right, Leslie...but Mr. Durwood is a very determined man, and I think it would be a shame not to at least give him a fair chance to try." He grinned when Tattoo and Leslie both started laughing.

A couple of hours later a small emergency called all three of them down to the supper club; once they had cleared it up, Roarke drove them back toward the main house, citing the paperwork waiting for him and Tattoo and the mail Leslie needed to sort through. "You think we're ever gonna have a paperless world?" Tattoo wondered idly as they drove along the northern arm of the Ring Road. "I mean, think how many trees sacrifice their lives every day so you can keep accounts and Leslie can read fantasy requests...one of these days we'll have nothing left, and then we'll have to carve everything on rocks like we did thousands of years ago." He shot Roarke a look.

"Sure," Leslie spoke up from the back seat. "That'll work fine, till we run out of rocks." Tattoo twisted around to glare at her; Roarke chuckled, then slowed the car and brought it to a halt, gazing at a bridge nearby that crossed a small stream. Standing there having a conversation too low for them to hear were Allan Culshaw and his one-time friend, Jake Lawrie. Lawrie looked skeptical, but they could already see that Culshaw's pendant was beginning to work its magic on him.

"Well, at least they're talking," Leslie observed.

"Yes, my child...if men would talk and listen to each other more often, the world would have fewer problems," Roarke said.

"People who are busy talking don't have time to make war," said Tattoo sagely.

Roarke threw him a look that made Leslie grin, and retorted, "I thought I just said that." With that he started the car and pulled away; Tattoo shrugged and Leslie settled back in her seat, snickering.

They had lunch, then spent an hour on the paperwork before Roarke decided it was best to make some checks on the fantasies. Roarke sent Tattoo on a few errands and bade Leslie come with him. "You spent quite a bit of yesterday working on that task," he noted, rising. "I think you and I both can use some fresh air."

Leslie nodded, standing up. "I'm feeling kind of cooped up anyway. Could we go over to the big waterfall? The one you see from the plane coming in?"

Roarke grinned. "You've been on that charter exactly once, and you still remember that? It must have greatly impressed you."

"I didn't know waterfalls could be that high. I didn't get to see too many before I came here," she told him as they left the house via the back terrace and took one of the many paths that cut through the jungle on this end of the island.

"Undoubtedly it was a whole new world for you, in a great many ways," Roarke said. "I see no reason we can't go to the waterfall; it should make for a pleasant and substantial walk, and I suspect we stand a good chance of running into someone there."

He was right about that, though it took a little while; they had been standing at the edge of the pool beneath the falls for some ten minutes before they heard slow footsteps behind them and turned to see a dejected Allan Culshaw meandering along the path, his head down. "You look forlorn, Mr. Culshaw," Roarke commented.

Culshaw paused, looked up, then shoved his hands into his back pockets and said wryly, "Like some poor ghost, Mr. Roarke?" Roarke only smiled, while Leslie wondered what he'd meant by that remark; and Culshaw continued flatly, "Jesse won't listen to me, and the pendant is at the bottom of the harbor. I'm sorry."

"How'd that happen?" asked Leslie in surprise, just now realizing the jewelry in question was missing from around Culshaw's neck.

"I went down to his boat, but he threw me off, using a couple of hired lackeys," said Culshaw. "I couldn't fight back, and the chain broke, and off went the pendant, right into the water. Couldn't do anything about it."

Roarke and Leslie approached him then, and Roarke asked, "Do you realize the gravity of your situation?" He checked his pocket watch. "In one hour, you must return to the other side." Leslie stared at him now, trying to figure out what he and Culshaw were talking about. "And unless you have delivered the third feather, you will remain a restless spirit, in limbo for all eternity. Were those not your very words?"

"I'll never convince Jesse without the pendant," Culshaw said hopelessly.

A determined look settled across Roarke's features. "You can do it, Mr. Culshaw, and I shall help you—by removing the restriction on physical violence." Culshaw's head came up and his face took on a glow of hope, and Roarke smiled. "Yes, you can defend yourself, with actions as well as words. You don't need the pendant, Mr. Culshaw. Stand on your own feet. It's the only way you can go to your rest...find peace."

By now Leslie had realized what he was talking about, and was gawking at him and Culshaw in turns, mouth hanging open. Culshaw noticed, winked at her, then eyed Roarke in speechless amazement. Roarke nodded once, then ushered Leslie back the way they had come, taking advantage of her dazed state.

Finally she recovered enough to peer sidewise at him. "Mr. Roarke...the way you were talking back there...and Mr. Culshaw didn't deny it or react funny or anything...so...so he's really a—I mean, he's not...?"

"As you will learn if you remain here long enough, my child, even spirits have their fantasies," Roarke told her gently. "And though you don't speak of it, you do as well. There is not a soul on earth that has never had a fantasy of some kind. It's only that most of us can never receive the privilege of living it. And in Mr. Culshaw's case, it's one last favor, a final gift to allow him to cease his wandering. Is he any less deserving than the living?"

"N-no," Leslie said, shaking her head. "It's just that...I mean, you've never had one of those here before. Not that I remember, anyway."

"There is, as they say, a first time for everything," Roarke said humorously. "One day, perhaps, you'll be just a little less disbelieving of what you will see here. Never forget, Leslie Susan, you live on Fantasy Island." He patted her shoulder a few times, then gestured her ahead on the path.

They had almost reached the house when Tattoo came out of the French doors and met them at the back of the terrace. "Just got a call from Mr. Durwood," he said. "Miss Lohman's back at her bungalow, and they're packing to leave."

"Are they indeed!" Roarke said, pausing with surprise.

"How'd she get back here?" Leslie asked.

Tattoo shrugged. "I guess she ran down the access road from Mr. Dumont's estate, and one of our drivers was passing by and picked her up. Sheer luck if you ask me. He told me she was shaking and hugging herself, and she wouldn't talk, except to say she wanted only to leave the beast behind."

"What beast?" Leslie asked.

Roarke frowned. "I think you had better come with me to Miss Lohman's bungalow, Leslie. Tattoo, thank you for letting me know. You'll get the story when we speak with Miss Lohman, Leslie."

A few more minutes' walk took them to the lane where the bungalows were grouped; Roarke knocked, and after a minute the door flew open, revealing an agitated Durwood, who looked as if he'd been wearing the same expression all day. "May we come in, Mr. Durwood?" Roarke asked with a low urgency in his voice, and strode in past the man without waiting for a response. Durwood stared angrily after him, and Leslie scurried in after her guardian, trying to get in under Durwood's radar while his attention was fixed on Roarke.

"I just heard of your experience, Miss Lohman," Roarke said, stepping into the main room where Susan was throwing clothes into a suitcase. "Are you all right?"

Susan looked calmer. "I'll be fine, Mr. Roarke..." Her features took on an accusing look then, and she added, "But you could've warned me."

"If I had, would you have believed me?" Roarke returned.

Susan let out a breath and her shoulders sagged. "I guess not," she admitted. After a second or two she looked up at Roarke, with a spooked expression on her face. "Then it wasn't just...some kind of hallucination?"

Roarke drew in a breath, and both Leslie and Susan watched him, listening intently, while Durwood waited at the door, his arms folded over his chest, his impatient glare going unnoticed by the others. Roarke wandered toward the raised dining area as he spoke. "Edmond Dumont's family is said to bear an ancient Gallic curse, passed on to one male each seventh generation." Susan's eyes widened; Leslie gnawed unconsciously on her lip. "Whatever the origin of the deformity, Edmond Dumont grew up shunned by people, with only the creatures of the forest—and his music—to keep him company."

Susan's face had taken on a torn look. "Well, naturally I...I feel sorry for him—"

Durwood's patience finally ran out; checking his watch, he broke in with that loud, demanding voice of his. "Hey, baby, we don't have a lot of time."

Susan ignored him and addressed Roarke. "Can anything be done for him?"

"Oh, every curse can be broken...with the right cure, of course," said Roarke, while Durwood shifted his weight in annoyance and glared at him. Roarke seemed not to notice; all his attention was on Susan as he said softly, "But you were his last hope."

Susan's expression chilled. "That's not fair, Mr. Roarke. He tricked me."

But then Roarke's eyes widened, and Leslie yanked her spine straight, alarmed at the look on his face—almost as if he were undergoing some form of mental torture. He raised his hands abruptly to his face, then his forehead, closing his eyes for a moment, then staring at nothing, pain flashing across his features in strobe-rapid turns. "Mr. Roarke..." Susan began, hesitantly. "What is it?"

Roarke's eyes had slid shut again, and his features seemed set in a permanent wince, but his voice was low and strangely calm. "Mr. Dumont...is dying, Miss Lohman, of loneliness...and a broken heart," he murmured. Susan's eyes widened with alarm; Leslie felt hers begin to sting, and in spite of herself she turned pleadingly to the singer, sensing Susan's weakening resolve and rising worry and fear. Roarke added quietly, "By midnight, he will be dead." Susan stared at him.

"He's dying?" Leslie breathed. "It's the curse that's killing him, isn't it, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke paused to look at her, and realized instantly why this resonated so heavily with her. "I'm afraid so, child," he said gently, and squeezed her shoulder before turning his attention back to Susan. He slipped past her while Leslie tried to control the threatening tears, casting a quick, reassuring smile at the girl before pausing behind the sofa and pushing the "play" button on a tape recorder sitting atop the table there.

They listened as Susan's voice spiraled out of the little speaker, singing the song she had become most famous for, "Rainbow Lake": _"When first I saw you by the lake / My eyes could not believe..."_ Leslie glanced at Susan, who winced and swallowed thickly.

"If Edmond Dumont dies," Roarke mused heavily, speaking over the music, "the world will be a much poorer place."

Susan seemed unable to stand any more. "Please, Mr. Roarke, turn it off," she said, looking away.

"Oh, certainly," Roarke replied, cutting the voice off in the middle of a word. "With the flick of a finger. But I can turn it on again, Miss Lohman." He speared Susan with a look and moved in toward her, his voice rising. "How much more of Edmond Dumont's music, as yet unwritten, will you be turning off, forever, if you do not go back and help him?" Susan looked on the edge of tears; Leslie's had already started flowing. "Are you prepared to deprive the world of that music, that beauty?" For a long moment they stared at each other, and Roarke pushed the point in a near whisper. "Are you?"

Susan hovered for three more seconds; then her face collapsed under the burden of guilt and sadness, and she abruptly turned away and started for the door. "Mike, you better make some more phone calls. I'm sorry," she said curtly.

"Are you crazy? You've got a contract!" Durwood yelled after her, but she never stopped, throwing the door open and rushing out of the bungalow. When the door closed after her, Durwood rounded on Roarke. "What the hell are you trying to do?"

"He's trying to save someone's life, that's what," Leslie barked at him through her tears, unable to stand any more of this man's relentless focus on contracts and money. "If you don't like it, well, that's just tough cookies for you!"

Durwood gaped at her, apparently so stunned by her outburst that it never occurred to him to lash out at Roarke for what seemed like Leslie's rudeness. Roarke himself met Durwood's gaze for several charged moments, before slipping an arm around Leslie's shoulders and guiding her out of the bungalow without another word.

"It's all right, Leslie," Roarke assured her, glancing at the sky, where the sun was still a good hour or so above the horizon. "Miss Lohman knows where to go. She'll take care of Mr. Dumont, so you need not worry."

Leslie gulped back the last of her tears and sniffed hard, trying to calm herself down. "I know...I just hope she makes it...I mean, I know you said by midnight, but that could just mean he'll be dead before then, too. She has to save him, Mr. Roarke. She just has to."

Roarke smiled. "I know, child, I know. Let's take the walk back—we have one more meeting to attend before we return home. Dry your eyes, now." He gave her a handkerchief, and she mopped her face, murmuring her thanks and handing it back, then letting him guide her along while she trudged along beside him, her head hanging.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § - December 9, 1980

Fortunately, the walk to the lagoon gave her a chance to recover to some extent, and she waited quietly beside Roarke as Allan Culshaw and his Lena emerged from the trees, his arm around her. Culshaw caught sight of Roarke and pulled himself up short; Roarke said gently, "I'm sorry, there is not much time."

Culshaw nodded once in understanding, excused himself and pulled Lena aside a few steps; Roarke and Leslie could hear every soft, reluctant word he spoke. "Lena, I, uh...I must go now," he told her.

"Well, then take me with you!" she begged.

"That's impossible," Culshaw murmured, gathering her hands into his, gazing into her eyes. She stared up at him in bewilderment.

"But I...I don't understand..."

"You will," Culshaw assured her. "And understand this too: I love you. I love you very, very much." They fell into each other's embrace, kissing almost desperately; Leslie could hardly bear to look, feeling the impending separation as though it were happening to her somehow, but she couldn't tear her eyes away.

"Oh, please, please," Lena moaned, "please, take me with you!"

"I have no choice...but we'll be together again. I promise you that one day, we _will_ be together." Culshaw's face seemed almost peaceful, and there was even a slight smile, even as Lena began to break down. "I promise. Goodbye, my Lena." He looked up, with Lena's face still cradled in one hand. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke...thank you for everything."

He turned and walked slowly away down the path, head hanging a bit, but seeming at ease; Lena reached out as if to stop him, but let her arms fall, her eyes wide and filling with tears. Roarke brought Leslie up to stand at Lena's side, and they watched Allan Culshaw retreat, with one last pause to look back and smile at them before he turned away once more. A few more steps, and he vanished quietly, as though he had never been.

"Allan...?" quavered Lena.

"I'm sorry, he has left," Roarke murmured.

Lena stared after the vanished Culshaw, then squeezed her eyes shut and started to break down once and for all; Roarke held her, hands around her shoulders, and gave her silent emotional support. Leslie shook her head slowly, swallowing hard, wondering what it felt like to love someone that deeply.

She spent a long evening pondering the idea, seeing over and over again the parting between Allan Culshaw and Lena, considering Susan Lohman's risk of breach of contract to save the life of Edmond Dumont, sitting on the settee under the shuttered windows and pulling her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. Roarke left her to her thoughts for some time, but when ten o'clock approached, he arose from the desk and sat down beside her. "Are you all right, Leslie?"

She looked at him with some wonder and sadness in her eyes. "Do you think that...do you think maybe the deeper you love someone, the more you risk an unhappy ending?"

Roarke studied her, knowing where the question came from, but wanting her to explore it. "Is that the conclusion you've reached, after seeing Mr. Culshaw and Miss Jordan this evening? Do you believe that love ends in the manner of _Romeo and Juliet_ , in every case where it is a deep, abiding love?"

"Seems like it does more often than not," she said pensively, her gaze losing focus. "It happened with Mr. Culshaw and Miss Jordan, and it happened with...with you and Helena last year, and it might happen with—"

She got no further, for the door to the inner foyer opened just then and Susan Lohman came inside, with a surprisingly handsome stranger behind her. Leslie sat up straight and Roarke turned to see who it was; recognition set in and he arose, smiling broadly. "Miss Lohman...and Maestro, it's very good to see you after so long!"

"For the first time in my life, it's good to be seen," Edmond Dumont told him, beaming like a second sunrise, "and it's all thanks to Susan."

Leslie gasped and rocketed into a standing position; but she had been sitting huddled for so long that her legs had fallen asleep and she nearly collapsed on numb limbs. Roarke caught her and grinned at her. "Careful, child."

Leslie barely acknowledged this; her eyes were glued to the couple just stepping into the study. "You broke the curse!" she cried finally, her face lighting. "You did it!"

Edmond and Susan looked at her with surprised interest. "You seem overly happy for someone you don't even know, young lady," Edmond remarked cheerfully.

Roarke smiled and explained, "That's because she understands what you had to go through, Maestro. Tell him, child."

"Well..." Leslie grew shy now that she was the focus of their attention, and shrugged, shaking one leg in an attempt to get some feeling back into it. "I...I'm here for kind of the same reason. There was a curse on my family too, and it orphaned me before I came here and Mr. Roarke helped me break it. So I'm really, really glad your curse is broken too."

Edmond and Susan stared at each other and then at Leslie with understanding, and they came to her and each took one of her hands. "Thank you for your empathy," Edmond said with a smile. "And I'm glad we could make you happy."

"Are you going to move into the estate together?" Leslie asked, while Roarke watched her with great amusement, still holding her upright. "That would be really cool."

Edmond laughed. "That place is too secluded, too hidden away," he said. "Now that the curse is broken, I want to get out into the world and experience everything I missed or had to witness at second hand. I'm going to sell the estate. But don't worry—I promise, we'll come back and visit again someday."

"Good," said Leslie. "But before you go...Maestro, could I get your autograph?"

"You're the first one ever to ask me that in person," said Edmond Dumont with a delighted laugh, "and just because of that, I'll be more than happy to give it to you!" At that they all laughed, and Leslie—her legs finally back in working order—rushed upstairs to retrieve her autograph book.

Once Edmond and Susan were gone, Roarke set about shutting down the study for the night, dousing lights and turning on the one in the stairwell. "So, young lady, do you still believe all love stories must necessarily end badly?" he asked.

She grinned at him. "I guess not. But I have to tell you, I'm glad this one, especially, had a happy ending." He grinned back and hugged her, then followed her up the steps.

§ § § - December 22, 1980

Since Leslie was now on school vacation, she was looking forward to going back to bed for a little while when they'd finished seeing their guests off. Tattoo was still teasing her about being awake in time for the staff Christmas party later that day when a rover drew up, containing Lena Jordan and Jake Lawrie. Lena faced them with a smile touched with only a trace of sorrow, and said, "Mr. Roarke, thank you for bringing me here, and for letting me see Allan again."

"You realize it was really for you that he came back," Roarke told her gently. "I can assure you that now he has found peace."

Lena nodded. "I've learned something very special, very beautiful. Goodbye." She and Lawrie shook hands with all three of them, then struck off for the dock.

"Boss," Tattoo said then, "what do you mean by 'he found his peace'?"

"The survivors of that plane crash weren't rescued just by luck, my friend," Roarke told him. "A forestry helicopter spotted Mr. Culshaw's backpack on the riverbank."

"Oh—and they made a search of the area?" Tattoo prompted.

"That's how they found the plane wreck, yes," said Roarke, nodding.

Tattoo smiled. "Then the man they called a coward was really a hero."

"Indeed, Tattoo," said Roarke reflectively. "He gave his life for his friends."

Leslie watched Tattoo's expression shift. "He gave his life?" the Frenchman echoed. "You mean we've been entertaining a...a _ghost?"_

"We sure have," said Leslie, grinning at him.

Tattoo gaped at her, jaw dangling, and Roarke pretended shock. "My dear Tattoo, don't tell me you are prejudiced!" Tattoo blinked and looked away, and Roarke and Leslie managed to share one secret grin before Tattoo peered back up at Roarke again and Roarke contrived innocence. To hide her lingering grin, Leslie twisted around to watch the second rover arrive, with Edmond Dumont and Susan Lohman.

"Mr. Roarke, words can't express the way we feel," Susan told him solemnly. "Would you please accept a simple thank you?"

"Of course," Roarke said with a smiling nod. "Although there is no need for it: it was your love that brought about this happy conclusion."

"And set me free," Edmond agreed, returning Susan's loving gaze. "How could you possibly have known that it would?"

"There is always a way, Maestro," Roarke said.

"Especially on Fantasy Island," Leslie put in then, and Roarke cast her a raised-brow look that made the adults all laugh. She just grinned unrepentantly back.

"Mr. Roarke," Edmond promised, "the music we make together will tell you how grateful we are."

"I'm sure it will—but more importantly, together you will enrich the whole world." He watched as the couple exchanged one more glance, then accepted Edmond's handshake. "Goodbye, Maestro."

"Goodbye, old friend," Edmond responded, and Susan murmured a last thanks as she and Edmond made their way to the dock together. Leslie gazed after them, thinking she could almost see their love creating a sort of aura around them.

"Boss," Tattoo ventured then, "did Mr. Dumont really have an animal face?"

"What do you think, Tattoo?" Roarke replied. "Was that just the way Miss Lohman saw him? A trick of the mind? The only thing that really matters is, now we know she loves him as a man, not just for his music." They all smiled at one another, and Roarke squeezed Leslie's shoulder once more as they watched the two musicians climb into the plane.

§ § § - October 10, 2009

"How lovely, Mr. Roarke!" Anna-Kristina said with awe, her eyes shining. "Edmond Dumont and Susan Lohman are famous all over the world, but I never once knew they had met right here on Fantasy Island!"

Christian had been watching his wife, as if having gained some new understanding of her. "Well, my Rose," he said softly, studying her for a moment as she gazed back at him. "So did they return?"

"It took them a while because they always had such busy schedules, but yes, they did," she said, nodding. "They came here to perform at the gala Errico threw here in 1991 to announce his engagement to Michiko."

Christian's eyes widened and he suddenly broke into laughter. "That seems fitting somehow!" he remarked. She laughed as well, nodding, watching as he sobered to a large extent and refocused on her. "I do find it interesting that you wondered about love in that fashion, though."

Roarke smiled and said, "She admitted to me later that day, when I probed her about it, that she wondered if such love could be found by anyone at all, or whether it took a great deal of luck and only the most fortunate people. After all, love is difficult enough to find at all, and too precious to pass up on when it comes to you. I told her that she could only wait to see what life brought her. And some fifteen-plus years later, when you and she had first met and were getting to know each other, she almost did pass up on what you have now, because she felt guilty—as if she were betraying Teppo." He fielded Christian's questioning look and nodded. "She knew she was on the brink of something—she told me in so many words that she had been falling in love with you—but she had not yet learned that no one ever has to be restricted to only one love in a lifetime."

At that Christian smiled. "If you encouraged her to explore our relationship, Mr. Roarke, then I can say only that I'm extraordinarily grateful that you did. Perhaps one need not be restricted to just one love per lifetime, as you say...but if that one love is the right one, you'll never need another." He slid both arms around Leslie and half buried his face in her hair, closing his eyes. Leslie smiled a little, wrapping her hands around his and turning her head so that she could kiss him.

"Ach," sighed Anna-Kristina, "I have Kai and I love him dearly, but you two still make me jealous." Christian and Leslie stared at her in laughing surprise, and she shrugged. "You don't see it, but you have a love that makes most other people's relationships look like close friendships. That's why we worried so much when you almost came apart back in February. To waste a love like that would be simply inexcusable."

"That's why we fought our way out of that estrangement," Christian told her. "In the end, I couldn't truly give up. I waited far too long for Leslie and our love to let it slip away. We both know it, and whatever happens, we'll always fight for that love. I think you need not worry any longer, even if it looks bad sometimes." He winked at her. "So tell me, how do you feel right now, mentally speaking?"

"So far, so good," Anna-Kristina mused,"but I'm beginning to feel that it's your stories that are keeping the hallucinations away. So perhaps you'd tell me some more?"

"What an excuse!" scoffed Christian while Roarke and Leslie burst out laughing. "I always knew you were a cheeky little brat, Anna-Kristina Maria Linda Karina! I hope you can overlook that bit of boldness, Mr. Roarke." But he was laughing too.

"I may be so inclined if Anna-Kristina can accept that this will have to be the final reminiscence for the day," Roarke said, casting a quick smile at the princess. "We need to get back to the children so that their babysitter can return home, and I also want to find out how Rogan has been handling the weekend's duties. Leslie, what do you have in mind?"

Leslie considered it for a long moment while the others studied her; then she looked at Roarke and shrugged. "At the moment, I come up blank. Your memory's better—maybe you can think of something appropriate."

"As a matter of fact, I did have one in mind, yes. You said you were attempting to recall fantasies that involved serious decision-making. To some extent, every fantasy requires that, but it's often more subtle. Perhaps this one will jog your memory..."

§ § § - January 15, 1983

The half-dozen dancers leaped into motion to the jaunty Caribbean-flavored notes twinkling from the band, and Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie made sure their clothing was immaculate before shifting their attention to the hatch of the seaplane. Surprised to see the older lady in the wheelchair, Leslie listened curiously when Tattoo inquired as to her identity, and Roarke replied, "That is Miss Rowena Haversham, Tattoo, of the Kentucky Havershams." Leslie had never heard of them, but she said nothing, presuming she was supposed to know who they were and unwilling to reveal her ignorance. Sure enough, Roarke explained, "Her family has long been known for breeding championship race horses and show jumpers."

"Did her accident have anything to do with jumping horses?" inquired Tattoo, with a nod toward the wheelchair, whose occupant's head was nodding to one side as if she were sleepy—or, thought Leslie, judging from Miss Haversham's expression, depressed, which she considered the more likely scenario.

Roarke said, "She was injured in a fall from a horse when just a young woman. Her career jumping horses had barely begun, and suddenly it was all over."

"How sad," murmured Leslie.

"What's her fantasy?" Tattoo asked.

"Miss Haversham's fantasy is to be made young again...so she can have the chance to win the prize she's always dreamed about: the blue ribbon."

"Oh," said Tattoo confidently. "That should be a—" He paused; both Leslie and Roarke turned to him when he didn't continue, but just stood there making chopping motions with one hand.

"A piece of cake?" Leslie supplied.

Tattoo shook his head impatiently, then found the word he wanted and, looking dis-gusted with himself, said, "A snap." Leslie grinned.

Roarke smiled slightly and observed, "Sometimes, Tattoo, the simplest things are not so simple after all." He studied Rowena Haversham as one of the young island men stopped her wheelchair off to one side of the end of the ramp, near a parrot's perch. Leslie wondered about the woman; she was dressed, like so many of their elderly guests, in very conservative, outdated clothing styles that usually came in unflattering colors, like the peculiar faded-eggplant hue of the plain dress Miss Haversham wore. What would she be like after Roarke rejuvenated her for the weekend?

She noticed that her guardian and Tattoo had already returned their attention to the plane, and looked that way as well, to see a tall, slender man who looked to be in his early forties step out of the hatch. Tattoo remarked, "That guy sure knows what he's doing, boss." Leslie cast him a surprised look; perhaps this guest looked confident and sure of himself, but how could he draw that conclusion from five seconds' worth of notice?

"That's the personality Mr. Danny Clements wants to present to the world, Tattoo," said Roarke. "The truth is, he sees his life as an empty failure."

"So what's his fantasy, boss?" Tattoo prompted.

"After what you just said," ventured Leslie, "I'd say he wants to succeed at something, just for once in his life."

"Exactly, Leslie—to turn his life around and make a new start."

"Millions of people have that dream, boss," Tattoo protested.

"Yes, but Mr. Clements is willing to gamble everything..." said Roarke with some emphasis on the last word and a significant look at Tattoo and then Leslie. "...to make his dream a reality."

"Everything?" repeated Tattoo.

"Even his life?" Leslie added, wide-eyed.

Roarke simply nodded, and while his ward and assistant exchanged dubious looks, he accepted his wine flute and toasted his guests. When Rowena Haversham lifted her drink in response, Leslie thought she seemed either physically weak, perhaps just fatigued, or maybe unenthusiastic. _So what's her story, anyway?_ she wondered, smiling automatically when she caught the older woman's gaze, and absurdly pleased for some reason when she got a return smile. _This'll be interesting!_


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § - January 15, 1982

Not far from the stables, there was a dressage arena, where Tattoo and Leslie came with Rowena Haversham about ninety minutes after their guests' arrival. This time Miss Haversham was wearing white gloves with her dress, an affectation that made her seem even more of an anachronism than she already looked like. There was a rider practicing already; as Tattoo, who had accompanied Miss Haversham to the arena, walked alongside the wheelchair and brought her through the entrance to the arena, the horse came to a halt nearby and abruptly reared, whinnying loudly as if in panic. Its rider got it under enough control to dismount, then calmed him down with repeated soothing words. "Good boy, good boy..." Then she caught sight of them and recognized Leslie, beaming. "Hi, Leslie!"

Leslie grinned; she knew this girl from school. "Hi, Crystal!"

Crystal approached with her horse firmly held on the bridle and focused on Miss Haversham. "I'm sorry—are you okay?"

Miss Haversham looked a little startled. "I should be asking you that question. My wheelchair must have startled your horse—I should know better." She spread out her gloved hands in embarrassed apology. "Except...my own horses...they're used to this contraption." Her voice was soft and low-pitched, as if she preferred not to call attention to herself.

Crystal brightened. "You have horses?"

"Oh, yes," said Miss Haversham with deep reverence. "Didn't mean to go scaring the daylights out of your horse, though. What's his name?"

"Candy Kisses," came the reply, "and I'm Crystal Denning." She reached out to shake hands with Miss Haversham.

"Delighted to meet you, Crystal...I'm—"

Tattoo cut her off apologetically. "I'm sorry, Crystal. I'm being rude. This is Miss Haversham." He gestured to her.

"Haversham...are you one of the Kentucky Havershams?" asked Crystal excitedly. Leslie had to smile; Crystal was known around Fantasy Island High, even to those who weren't in her grade level, as dedicated to everything equine, and had been competing in assorted dressage events and races for much of her young life. _Of course she'd know who this lady is._ She and Tattoo glanced at each other and grinned.

"That I am," the woman confirmed with a self-deprecating smile.

"Your horses are famous!" Crystal exclaimed, clearly thrilled. "You must have tons of blue ribbons."

"They've won their share over the years," Miss Haversham agreed, her hand over her heart as if she were having some trouble breathing. "Not me personally. I almost did once." She looked up and focused on Crystal. "But I was in an accident, and I was disqualified."

Crystal remarked, "If I could never ride again, I don't think I'd ever stop crying. The only thing worse would be losing Candy Kisses." She gently scratched her now-docile horse as she spoke.

"You do love your horse, don't you?" Miss Haversham mused dreamily, gazing on.

"More than anything else in the whole world...except my Uncle Jim."

"You were supposed to meet me, Crystal," said a male voice just then, and they all looked around at a young mustachioed brunet man who approached them and patted Candy Kisses' back as he paused beside Crystal.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Uncle Jim, but I met this nice lady and we got to talking. Uncle Jim, this is Miss Haversham, and these are my friends, Tattoo and Leslie. Leslie's a senior at F.I. High and we kind of met by accident."

Crystal's uncle peered quizzically between her and Leslie, but didn't bother pursuing the subject for the moment. "How do you do. Very pleased to meet you—Jim Denning."

"You've got a charming niece," Miss Haversham told Denning with a smile.

"Charming—and late. I'm afraid you'll have to excuse her; we have an appointment with a prospective buyer."

At that Crystal whirled around and begged, "But Uncle Jim, Candy Kisses is gonna win this time. I _know_ it!"

"You have an awful lot more confidence in him than I do, honey," Denning said, not without sympathy. "He's never won anything yet."

"But that's my fault, not his. My riding's improved—you said so yourself!"

Denning shook his head. "I'm sorry, Crystal, I've made up my mind. We can't afford to keep a loser, honey. No blue ribbon, no Candy Kisses. This is his last chance." He turned to the waiting group as Crystal pressed a kiss to her horse's head. "Awfully nice meeting you folks. Would you excuse us, please?" They agreed, exchanged farewells, and watched as Crystal, her uncle and Candy Kisses plodded away.

"So what's the story, Leslie, do you know?" Tattoo asked.

Leslie shrugged. "Not much. I don't really know Crystal that well, and I never met her uncle before today. They have a big house down toward the pineapple plantation and the high school, but they also have a lot of debt. They keep their horses stabled up here and let Mr. Roarke rent them out to guests, for extra money."

"How'd you meet her?" Tattoo asked.

"In the lunch line at school. She's a couple of years behind me. She accidentally knocked my dessert off my lunch tray, and when she realized who I was, she practically started crying. I told her not to worry about it. She said then that she was glad I wasn't the snob she thought I'd be, living with Mr. Roarke and all—" She made a face. "Which is a nice change from most of the girls in my grade. Anyway, she said she's orphaned too and her uncle took her in when she was around seven or so. I knew her as the horse-crazy kid, just from the school paper and all, but it was the first meeting we had. I don't see her much, so this was a surprise. Had no idea they were having trouble with Candy Kisses."

Tattoo and Miss Haversham looked at each other. "That's a sad story," Miss Haversham commented, "but frankly, I had hopes that I could start my fantasy right away."

"Don't worry," Tattoo counseled. "The boss always has a reason for everything, and he has a reason for sending us down here to meet Crystal. Once he has a chance to talk to you, we'll all find out what's gonna happen. We'll take you back to your bungalow, Miss Haversham, and you can change clothes and make yourself at home. Then we'll come to get you when it's time for you to see the boss." He nodded to the native who had been employed to push Miss Haversham's wheelchair. "Come on, let's go back."

Tattoo and Leslie were still speculating on the origins of horse names, most of which they both found quite odd and often a source of amusement, when they entered the inner foyer at the main house and found Roarke just greeting Danny Clements. Introductions went around, and Clements sat down while Roarke resumed his own seat and Tattoo and Leslie took their usual places. "For a man who regards himself as a failure, you are very relaxed, Mr. Clements," Roarke observed.

"Well, I'm always relaxed, Mr. Roarke," Clements said. "That's my problem. You see, I've relaxed myself right out of every job I've ever held. Either that, or some gorgeous gal comes along, and I get tangled up in her problems, and pretty soon..." He grinned self-deprecatingly and raised both hands, half laughing. "Another job, down the tubes."

"I know the problem," said Tattoo, grinning sympathetically and nodding; Roarke and Leslie both peered at him oddly, Roarke's smile fading abruptly and taking on a tinge of disapproval. Tattoo caught it and sobered, folding his hands atop the desk and falling silent. Leslie did her best to hide a grin, but she wondered what on earth Tattoo had meant.

"Anyway," Clements said, "I intend to change all that, starting right now."

"May I ask...how do you hope to pull it off?" asked Roarke.

Tattoo looked blankly at him. "Pull what off, boss?"

"Well, Tattoo, you see...Mr. Clements wants me to help him get inside one of the most feared island prisons in the world—one from which no one has ever escaped."

"No one's ever escaped, and you want to go _in?"_ Tattoo blurted, perplexed. "Why?"

Clements got up and leaned over the desk, planting both hands on its surface. "I want to rescue one of its prisoners—a man known only as Kodiak."

Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other, and Leslie asked, "What for?"

"I've heard he's a double agent with information vital to the United States government," Clements explained.

Roarke shook his head. "A most dangerous undertaking, Mr. Clements."

"But the government is willing to pay," said Clements, straightening, eyeing Roarke significantly. "A two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar reward to whoever breaks him out." He nodded confidently as they stared at him. "And I've got a plan. Everything I need to pull it off is right here in this duffel bag." He lifted a large dark-green nylon bag—at least twice the size of the one Leslie remembered having first brought to the island with her—and displayed it at them, then let it fall with a heavy thump and again leaned on the desk. "If you could just get me inside, Mr. Roarke, I'll not only bust Kodiak out, but I'll buy myself a new start in life."

"What will you do, if you succeed?" asked Roarke.

Clements straightened again and threw his arms out in an expansive gesture. "Buy a boat," he said. "Yeah. Maybe do a little charter work during the tourist season."

Roarke smiled at that; Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other, and she could read the glint in his dark eyes that told her he felt as dubious about this whole ill-advised adventure as she did. But Roarke seemed to find this amusing enough to allow Clements to go through with it, and reached into a desk drawer. "Very well...will you excuse me, Tattoo." He arose and came around the desk and Leslie's chair. "Your destination, Mr. Clements: a modern-day Devil's Island, deep in the heart of a revolution-torn foreign power. The island is located some three hundred miles to the southwest." He gestured through the French shutters with one finger. "Now...take the picture, Mr. Clements. Look at it, very carefully." With that, he handed the photo to Clements; Leslie had caught a glimpse of it as Roarke passed her chair, and now stepped around Tattoo to get a better look. It showed a dusty compound surrounded by several two-story adobe-style buildings, one of which was fronted with a porch on the top floor and an arched shelter on the ground floor—perhaps the prison headquarters, she figured. "Study every detail," Roarke instructed with deliberate precision, staring intently at Clements. "Concentrate, Mr. Clements; think of nothing else. Nothing."

At that point Roarke and Clements vanished, as if into thin air, and Leslie and Tattoo both leaped back from the chair where Clements had been sitting. Tattoo uttered some shocked-sounding exclamation in French, and Leslie shook her head hard. "You'd think he could give us a little bit of warning before he does that," she complained.

Tattoo blew out a breath. "Oh, you know the boss...he likes to keep his secrets. But that doesn't mean I don't agree with you." They looked ruefully at each other and both more or less fell into chairs, taking a moment or two to catch their breath.

Some thirty seconds later, Roarke strolled in from the terrace, as though he'd merely ducked out for some fresh air. Tattoo jumped to his feet and Leslie sat up. "So where's Mr. Clements?" Tattoo asked.

"You even sent his duffel with him," Leslie added, noticing for the first time that the big green bag was also gone. "At least you were thorough."

Roarke eyed her askance. "That young man needs all the help he can get, don't you think?" He noticed Tattoo's look. "And no, it's not such a rude question, Tattoo: consider the mission he has set for himself. You must admit, he has chosen a most extraordinary way of turning his life around, as he put it."

"You're still a diplomat, Mr. Roarke," Leslie said, rolling her eyes. "I'd have said 'insane'. Whatever happened to starting out small and working your way up?"

"If nothing else, that guy's got a lot of confidence in himself," Tattoo said.

"And that may be one of his strengths in seeing this fantasy through," Roarke told them, smiling. "It's time now to speak with Miss Haversham. If you would do me a favor and bring her here, Tattoo, then supervise the luau preparations, I would be grateful."

"Should I help?" Leslie asked, already rising.

"No, you stay, Leslie. It seems to me that, since you know young Crystal, you might remain and find out how this fantasy will play out." He smiled at her as Tattoo departed the house, and she smiled back, settling into her chair beside the desk.

About ten minutes later the same young native man wheeled Rowena Haversham in through the French shutters, and Roarke greeted her, asking her if she wished any refreshment. "No, thank you," she responded, "I'm planning to have lunch at the restaurant soon. But I'd like to know what the delay is here. You know perfectly well what my fantasy is. I've never won anything, and this is my only chance to do that. That's the reason I came here—to win that blue ribbon!"

"Yes, I understand, Miss Haversham, of course," Roarke said, pacing slowly along the floor as he considered it. "But are you absolutely sure that winning the blue ribbon is what you want more than anything else?"

"When I do that," Miss Haversham said in her low, modulated voice, "I will be totally happy. Except for one thing...that girl I met, Crystal Denning. I'm sure you know her..."

"Yes, I know of her," Roarke said, "through Leslie." He nodded in his ward's direction, and she smiled, a little tense, already seeing where this was headed.

"Did you know that her uncle plans to sell her horse?" Miss Haversham asked.

Roarke came around to sit on the corner of the desk. "My dear Miss Haversham, Mr. Denning has a right to do with Candy Kisses whatever he wishes. He has been Crystal's guardian since the unfortunate death of her parents, and...well, raising a child is an expensive proposition." Leslie shifted in her chair, but Roarke's full attention was on their guest. "And if Crystal doesn't win the purse tomorrow, her uncle will have no choice but to sell her horse, I'm afraid."

"But Crystal won't win tomorrow!" Miss Haversham argued, sounding strident and upset for the first time. "That's what I came here to do!"

"Yes," Roarke murmured, studying her, then arising and pulling over one of the chairs from the grouping under the shuttered windows. "Yes, that is the fantasy you have requested, and the one I have agreed to give you." He settled down and pulled his jacket around him. "But perhaps there is no reason to worry. Mr. Denning is doubtful that his niece will be able to even qualify for the competition."

Miss Haversham let out a breath. "Well, that is a relief. I wouldn't want to be responsible for Crystal losing her horse." She spared Leslie an apologetic look.

"Of course, of course," murmured Roarke, though he peered at Miss Haversham with a look that Leslie thought seemed a little disapproving.

"Now...when does my fantasy begin?" Miss Haversham asked.

Roarke smiled a little. "Very well." With that he arose and withdrew a riding crop from a desk drawer. "Then...take this riding crop, Miss Haversham." He handed it to her, and she peered at it with a curious expression on her face. "Now grip it tightly—that's right—close your eyes, and remember your last ride."

Miss Haversham's eyes popped open. "Mr. Roarke, no, please—"

"Close your eyes, Miss Haversham," Roarke repeated, gently but firmly. After a last second, the woman's desire for her fantasy seemed to win out over her reluctance to relive that memory, and her eyes slid shut again. Leslie got to her feet from the settee where she'd been watching, and edged over to Roarke's side, clasping her hands behind her back; her guardian smiled briefly at her, then focused fully on Rowena Haversham. "Let the memory of the day flow through you. Concentrate...concentrate...that's right. No," he said, leaning forward slightly, "not the accident." Leslie gaped at him, wondering if he could see Miss Haversham's memories as well. "The joy of riding; the air rushing through your hair..."

Then he and Miss Haversham both vanished, just the way he'd done with Danny Clements not an hour before, and Leslie flinched violently back from the desk, nearly stumbling over her own two feet before collapsing into the chair Roarke had been sitting in. "I swear," she growled, glaring at the ceiling as if he were gazing at her from up there, "if you ever do that again without telling me you're doing it, then I...I...well, I'll get really, really mad at you!" Her own words brought her up short and she rolled her eyes at herself. "At the very least, you could've taken me along this time..."

Roarke returned, the same way he had the first time, no more than about five minutes after he'd left, and intercepted Leslie's pouting glare. "And what, may I ask, is that for?"

"Twice in an hour you've just—" she snapped her fingers "—vanished. Right out of nowhere and off to someplace else. You and the guest. I could see you doing it for one, but both of them in the same weekend? Come on, Mr. Roarke!"

"Perhaps next time I'll bring you along, as you wished," he said with that certain knowing look all parents give to their kids, making her scowl even more and slump in her chair at the fact that he knew she'd wished in the first place. Then he added, "But only if you think it won't make you sick, to find yourself so suddenly in another place."

"A lot of faith you have in me," she complained, glaring even harder at him. "Thanks a lot. I think I'm going to see what's for lunch." She shoved herself out of the chair and stalked across the room and toward the kitchen, leaving Roarke shaking his head with amusement.


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § - January 15, 1983

After lunch, though, Roarke took Leslie down to the stables, where they watched Rowena Haversham—now looking much younger, hale and fit and healthy, with long dark hair caught up in two small silver barrettes but otherwise left loose—riding, as she had no doubt been doing since Roarke had effected her transformation. She turned out to be an excellent rider, as if she had never forgotten even the smallest detail or nuance despite several decades in a wheelchair. "She's good," Leslie remarked.

"Indeed," Roarke said, watching as Rowena cantered up to them. Leslie found it easier somehow to think of her by her first name now that she was temporarily young, whereas her true persona seemed to demand more formality. Rowena recognized them and brought her mount to a halt, and Roarke assisted her with the dismount as a stable hand came up to take care of the horse and led it away.

"Mr. Roarke, it feels so wonderful to ride again!" Rowena exclaimed joyfully.

"Yes, your form is excellent, Miss Haversham," Roarke commended her. "Excellent. There is only one other rider on Fantasy Island who can touch you, and she will be your chief competitor tomorrow: Crystal Denning."

Rowena eyed him in puzzlement. "But you said she wouldn't qualify."

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Haversham. I believe I said her uncle doubted that she would," Roarke told her.

"Crystal's a good rider too," Leslie said, pushing her hands into her skirt pockets and studying Rowena. "My friends and I saw her last summer in two or three competitions here on the island. Her uncle just doesn't realize how good she really is, that's all."

Rowena stared at her and started to speak, but was interrupted by the whinny of a horse; they all looked around and saw Crystal herself cantering up to them. "Hi, Mr. Roarke, hi, Leslie!" Crystal bubbled. "Did you hear the great news?"

"Yes, congratulations, Miss Denning," Roarke said warmly.

"That's great, Crystal," Leslie put in. "I'll get hold of my friends and we'll come watch you in the competition." Crystal beamed delightedly.

"Miss Denning," Roarke said then, "may I present Miss Rowena Haversham." He gestured to Rowena, whose face was chilly, Leslie noticed.

Crystal was apparently too happy to see it, and said with interest, "Oh, I met another Miss Haversham this morning." Leslie bit her lip and looked at Roarke, who in turn looked at Rowena, transferring the burden to her.

Rowena gathered herself and said a little hesitantly, "Oh...that would be my aunt. Please, call me Rowena."

"Okay," Crystal agreed. "Are you in the competition tomorrow?"

"Yes, I am," said Rowena, remarkably collected for someone who was caught up in a situation she didn't like and wasn't prepared for. "Uh...how about a little competition right now?" At this Roarke's expression grew concerned, and he frowned; Leslie shot a glance at Crystal. "First three obstacles?"

"Okay," said Crystal again. "Here goes." She turned Candy Kisses around and made for the starting line while they watched; she performed beautifully.

"She's good," Rowena conceded a bit grudgingly. "I don't like this a bit, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke gave her a look of mild surprise. "Surely, Miss Haversham, you want to know the thrill of winning the blue ribbon. You didn't expect it to come to you without a contest, did you?"

Rowena shook her head slightly, but they could see she was flustered. "Well, no...of course not."

"Of course," Roarke agreed, and again they watched as Crystal put Candy Kisses through the remainder of the course. She was beaming again as she brought the horse to a stop near her audience. "Excellent, Miss Denning, excellent—don't you agree, Miss Haversham?" He turned to Rowena.

Faced with Roarke's expectant look, Crystal's exuberance and Leslie's pointed stare, Rowena could do no more than admit the truth. "Yes...you're very good."

"Thank you," Crystal replied, clearly delighted. "Your turn!" She dismounted Candy Kisses as the stable hand brought Rowena a fresh horse; she took Candy Kisses off to be rubbed down while Rowena brought her horse to the starting line and then put him through the course, with an intense look that they could all see even from across the arena.

"Oh, Mr. Roarke, she's terrific," Crystal said, an anxious look blooming on her face as they gazed on. "I'll lose for sure!"

"You must have faith in yourself, Miss Denning," Roarke admonished gently.

"And in Candy Kisses," Leslie added, hoping her smile was reassuring enough to convince Crystal. "If you're going to compete in things like this, you can't let yourself be discouraged that easily, or you won't make it, and Candy Kisses won't have a chance."

"Precisely," Roarke concurred, smiling at his ward. "Well said, Leslie."

Rowena approached them with a happy grin on her face, and Crystal gazed up at her, observing graciously, "You're gonna be hard to beat, Rowena."

Rowena seemed more gracious as well. "Well, I've been at it a little longer than you have." Her smile actually looked warm.

Then Crystal announced, "Well, just don't get your hopes up too much. I'm gonna win that blue ribbon tomorrow—because I have to." So saying, she left them.

"Sorry, Crystal," Rowena said, as much to herself as the retreating girl. "But not this time. Thanks a lot, Mr. Roarke." She shot him a quick glare before wheeling her horse away and cantering across the grass.

Leslie stared after her, then after Crystal, who vanished into the stable. "Maybe I was a little _too_ encouraging," she mumbled, biting her lip.

Roarke looked curiously at her. "Why would you say that? You did the right thing, Leslie. What Crystal did with that, how she used that encouragement, was altogether her own choice. Now Miss Haversham will find herself with some healthy competition, and Crystal will push herself that much further and improve her riding all the more."

"All I can say is, I hope there won't be some sort of 'Dynasty'-style catfight," Leslie said, rolling her eyes. "All we need to do is recreate Krystle Carrington and Alexis Colby in a big mud puddle or a lily pond...or worse, under the waterfall!" At that Roarke laughed and gestured for the rover parked some distance away, and they headed out of the arena to leave Rowena to practice.

‡ ‡ ‡

There was to be a party that evening, entirely separate from the luau, at the old opera house; Roarke had arranged it across the previous week for the equestrian set that had gathered on the island for the competition. Leslie had been surprised when Lauren and Michiko, both evidently at loose ends, had asked if they could go too; after some discussion that afternoon and a telephone conference between Roarke, Carole McCormick and Miyoshi Tokita, it was agreed that Lauren and Michiko could stay overnight at the main house, using sleeping bags in Leslie's room. They had joined Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie for supper; now, as they ate, Lauren remarked, "It said in the paper there's going to be another horse race of some sort. I bet Crystal Denning's competing."

"She is, actually," Leslie said. "She's gotten a lot better since last summer, too. Wait till we see her tomorrow in the dressage competition."

"Leslie," Roarke said, "I think it best if you try to be impartial."

"What for?" Leslie asked, genuinely surprised. "I'm not one of the judges. I mean, I do feel for Miss Haversham and all, but Candy Kisses is the only horse Crystal has all for her own—the other four are her uncle Jim's, you know—and if she has to lose him, she'll just be destroyed. You'd think..." She trailed off when she noticed her friends listening in, and gave Roarke a look. "Oh, geez—you jumped all over my case when I first got here for telling my friends about the fantasies, and then said I could if I didn't go into specifics. And now you've just about pushed me into having to explain everything."

Lauren and Michiko looked at each other, then at Roarke. "I think she has a point, Mr. Roarke," Michiko said with a grin. "You're the one who mentioned impartiality."

Roarke chuckled. "It so happens that Miss Rowena Haversham is here to fulfill a fantasy, of winning the blue ribbon she never was able to before she suffered a career-ending injury. Unfortunately, if Crystal Denning doesn't win, her uncle will sell her horse, as the horse in question has never yet won a competition."

"Oh," Lauren and Michiko said together, drawing out the word and looking at each other. Then Michiko turned to Leslie. "What were you going to say before you interrupted yourself a minute ago?"

Leslie had to think back before she could pick up on her dropped thread of thought. "Oh, that's right. I was going to say, you'd think Rowena Haversham could consider the circumstances and try to compromise or something. But some people are so stubborn!"

"Quite like a certain teenager I know," Roarke commented dryly.

Michiko and Lauren laughed at Leslie's dirty look. "I'd like to think I wouldn't be like that," she protested. "I'd have tried to find some way to compromise, so that I could have my fantasy and Crystal would still have a good shot at winning. But Miss Haversham won't do that. It's really kind of a nasty thing, when you think about it. Is she that bitter about having her career cut short by that accident?"

"I suspect Miss Haversham has spent so many years yearning for what could never be, and has put so much hope on this fantasy, that she can see nothing else, and her determination reflects that. But I daresay she isn't that coldhearted, Leslie. Give her a chance."

The girls enjoyed themselves immensely at the party, particularly when they learned they would be dressing in formal clothes. Roarke lingered to watch the three of them going through a collection of long dresses in the warehouse he used as wardrobe storage, laughing, holding up gowns for inspection, speculating about what sort of design they'd like to wear and—after a good two hours during which he reminded them half a dozen times that they needed to choose or they'd be late—the girls at last made their selections and modeled them for both Roarke and Tattoo in the study. "Beautiful!" Tattoo said, grinning.

"Very well done, ladies, all three of you," Roarke agreed, smiling broadly and arising from the desk in his own white tuxedo. "It's time we left. Tattoo, thank you for volunteering for luau duty tonight; I greatly appreciate it."

"No problem at all, boss," said Tattoo. "Have a good time." He tossed them all a wave and left via the French shutters; Roarke ushered the three girls out through the front door and drove them down to the opera house himself.

It turned out that Leslie and her friends were all appropriated for dances by several boys around their age who were here for the competition; the one who danced with Leslie turned out to be from Lilla Jordsö, to her surprise. "No kidding. My grandmother went there once, when she was a little girl," said Leslie.

The boy, a blue-eyed blond whose cheeks were adorned by deep dimples when he smiled, lifted both eyebrows with interest. "Really? When was that?"

"Oh gosh...I don't know exactly," Leslie admitted. "I do remember it was around the time of a king's coronation. I just don't know which one. I kind of remember her showing me a picture of her posing with the royal family."

The boy laughed. "Oh, then it must have been our King Erik. He was known to enjoy taking photos with our people, and sometimes with lucky tourists."

"You must have met the royal family too, if you compete in dressage competitions," Leslie ventured, trying to make conversation. She thought this boy was quite attractive, and was particularly drawn in by the fact that he didn't seem intimidated by the fact that she was Roarke's ward, as all the boys she knew in school did. It was her hope that maybe she could keep him as a dance partner throughout the evening.

"Oh no, no...I have never met them," he said with a quick shake of his head. "They do not ride horses. It's not been done for years now. They say the family won't ride because our Queen Julia was killed in a fall from a horse, back in 1958. Maybe that isn't so strange, but I don't think they will even watch competitions. I always thought King Lukas—her husband—must have passed some sort of law that the royal family will never again even go near a horse because one killed his queen."

"That's pretty sad," Leslie said, surprised. "So...well...I guess you must have traveled a lot, going to competitions in all these different places."

"Only in England and Scandinavia," he said. "I come from a small town called Jorvik, and we are not rich. So I have worked a lot to pay for my travel. But I won a competition at home in the summer, and I saved that money for this trip alone."

All Leslie could do was say, "Good luck." But she was beginning to think she had a few too many people to cheer for, and wondered whether she even wanted to go to the competition anymore now.

The girls eventually gathered at the refreshment table when the orchestra took a break, comparing their dance partners and speculating on whether they might be able to stay in touch after the party. "Probably not in Leslie's case," said Lauren with a smirk. "I overheard you and that adorable guy you were dancing with. He's got the sexiest accent—so where's he from?"

"Lilla Jordsö," Leslie said. "He's actually here to ride in the competition."

"You know you'll never see that guy again after this weekend," Lauren predicted.

"I have to agree," said Michiko. "But don't feel bad...I won't see my dance partner either. He's the son of a gazillionaire horse breeder in California, and all he can talk about is skiing in Switzerland and vacationing in the Mediterranean, and some private boarding school he attends in France or Austria or somewhere. Totally different social level from us."

"But it's fun while it lasts," Leslie said, "and you know it." Michiko shrugged, and all the girls broke into laughter.

Around eleven, Roarke—with Crystal Denning in tow—corralled the girls and told them it was time to leave. "I'll be taking Miss Denning home, as her uncle seems to have a companion for the evening," he said. "Leslie, I've called a driver to come pick you girls up; I'll expect to find you in your room when I return."

"We'll be there," Leslie promised, and Roarke nodded; Lauren and Michiko greeted Crystal and wished her luck in the competition, and they departed. A rover was waiting for them, and all the way home they laughed, joked, talked about the party and their dance partners, and looked forward to seeing the competition.

In Leslie's room, Mana'olana provided them with glasses of tropical fruit-juice blends and made them promise not to tell Roarke she had allowed them to drink them outside the kitchen, then retreated. Forewarned, they had hidden the empty glasses behind the cushions on the window seat in the dormer by the time Roarke came back to check on them.

"How'd it go, getting Crystal home?" Leslie asked.

Roarke's expression grew a bit troubled, and the girls looked at one another. "I'm afraid that Crystal and I came upon her uncle and Miss Haversham together," he said, his gaze unfocused. "We overheard her persuading Mr. Denning to forgo the sale he had previously arranged and sell Candy Kisses to her instead. Miss Haversham said it wasn't what it seemed to be, but unfortunately, Crystal doesn't believe it. She feels betrayed by both her uncle and our guest, and I must admit, I can't blame her."

Leslie shook her head. "Well, in that case, I hope Miss Haversham can talk as fancy as she can ride," she muttered, disgusted.

"So do I, Leslie," Roarke said, and they looked at each other for a long moment before he smiled. "But that's for tomorrow. I suggest you girls get some sleep; it will be an early morning and a long day."

They bid him good night and settled down to sleep, but as Lauren put it, "It reminds me of this old hard-rock song my brother loves. 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap'." It made Leslie and Michiko laugh, but privately Leslie was in full agreement.


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § - January 16, 1983

Roarke had gone for a check on Danny Clements' fantasy about an hour after breakfast and reported that Clements, predictably, had managed to get himself caught and had asked for help. "So what'd you tell him?" Tattoo asked, while Leslie looked up from a batch of mail and Lauren and Michiko, who had been looking on from chairs pulled up next to her, tuned in avidly.

"I simply told him to improvise, my friend," Roarke replied impishly, and Leslie snickered while her friends looked at each other. "See if you can wind up your current activities before eleven. The dressage competitions begin at noon, and we'll eat at the arena; I will be announcing, and you three girls will be sitting with me."

Roarke and Tattoo, dressed in smart equestrian outfits, mounted horses—a pony, actually, in Tattoo's case—and Roarke spoke through a remote mike. "My dear friends!" he began, his voice echoing across the arena. "Welcome to these two days of the exciting Fantasy Island Horse Show. As you know, the winner of today's Open Hunter competition will be awarded a gold cup, the coveted blue ribbon, and a purse of fifty thousand dollars." Lauren and Michiko stared at each other, impressed, then at Leslie, who nodded, letting her gaze stray across the contestants cantering in a parade around the perimeter of the course. As the applause died down, Roarke went on, "We are now ready to begin the competition, which promises to be a most exciting exhibition. Thank you." Again there was applause; he and Tattoo rode over beside the booth where the girls were still sitting, and Roarke handed his assistant the mike.

"Thank you, boss," Tattoo said, and spoke into it. "Ladies and gentlemen, for our first round, we're gonna have number seventeen, Mr. King, on Beautiful Star." They watched as the first contestant cantered into the ring and began his course; Leslie scanned the fence where the contestants were standing, in an attempt to pick out the _jordisk_ boy she had danced with the previous evening, and instead found herself staring at Crystal Denning and Rowena Haversham. They spoke for a few minutes, with Crystal turning around to address Rowena after a moment before stalking away. Leslie noticed, even from her vantage point almost halfway across the arena, the anguished look on Rowena's face and wondered what Crystal had said to her.

The competition was indeed quite exciting; Leslie found herself watching her former date from the previous evening when his turn came up, almost hoping he would win and render the whole ridiculous feud between Crystal and Rowena moot. But there were many others just as good, and at last it came around to the next-to-last rider, posting as she cantered into the starting strip beside the arena. "And now today's penultimate contestant," said Roarke into the mike, "saluting the judge, is Miss Rowena Haversham, number twenty-one, on Kentucky Dream." Everyone applauded, and Leslie joined in, though she wasn't certain she wanted to. Rowena looked collected, focused and ready to ride.

She completed the course without a single mishap, and the judge arose then and handed Tattoo a ticket, which he in turn gave to Roarke. Leslie, Lauren and Michiko leaned out of the booth, all of them trying to see it, and Roarke glanced at them with the barest smile before announcing, "Miss Haversham leads with a score of ninety-six point ninety-nine." Applause welled up again and Leslie and her friends looked at each other; Leslie could see Crystal and her uncle standing at the fence, and Crystal hung her head for a moment.

"So does that mean she won and Crystal lost?" Lauren asked low.

Leslie shrugged. "I don't know...I guess so." Roarke nudged his horse into movement then, and the girls watched him catch up with Rowena.

Roarke paused beside her horse and said, "Congratulations, Miss Haversham." When she only lowered her head, he inquired, "Is something wrong?"

"Yes, there is, and I don't understand it," she said, sounding indignant. "I'm going to win the blue ribbon, I've saved Candy Kisses for Crystal—so why do I feel so rotten?"

"Perhaps there are more important things in life than winning," said Roarke.

Rowena turned that over, then said softly, "I just can't rob Crystal of the joy of saving Candy Kisses herself. Mr. Roarke, I want to change my fantasy."

"Change your fantasy!" he echoed, amazed. "Oh, I'm afraid that's not possible, Miss Haversham. However, you should remember that the key to winning isn't that special riding crop you carry." He made a gesture at it.

She stared at it, then looked up, brightening. "Of course! Thanks, Mr. Roarke!" With a huge smile, she pulled her horse away and trotted off; Roarke watched with a smile, then turned his own steed back towards the announcer's booth.

"So what happened?" Michiko asked.

"I saw her big grin," Leslie put in. "What'd you say to her?"

Roarke merely smiled. "Suppose you girls wait and see what she does next—and you too, my friend." This he addressed to Tattoo, who was obviously on the brink of asking a question. "I think you'll all be pleasantly surprised."

"How do you know what she's gonna do next?" Tattoo challenged him. "You always like to act like you know the future. If you do, then you might as well tell us now, or else you can let us find out along with you."

"You," Roarke informed him, "have some announcements to make in a few minutes, so I suggest you prepare yourself for that. Ladies, come with me, please." He moved his horse along at a walk so the girls could keep up once they had tumbled out of the announcer's booth and fallen in beside him; he dismounted some distance from the stables, sent the animal off with the nearest stable hand, and beckoned the girls along.

In another moment or so, they rounded a horse trailer and saw Rowena Haversham speaking earnestly with Crystal Denning, whose defeated voice was just saying, "You got the highest score ever awarded in this competition!"

"Listen, Crystal, you were right, you know. You _are_ going to win."

"What makes you think so?" Crystal demanded.

"Because if you really want to win," Rowena said intensely, "nothing can stop you. And you have the two best reasons in the world, remember?"

"That doesn't mean anything," Crystal muttered.

"It means everything," insisted Rowena. "I tell you what: I'm going to give you my special good-luck charm. Here." She gave Crystal the riding crop Roarke had handed her the day before. "Now hold onto this, and believe with all your heart that you're going to win."

Crystal looked at the crop, then stared at Rowena in bewilderment. Rowena nodded and told her, "Candy Kisses is counting on you—and so am I."

Crystal stared at her as Roarke, Leslie, Lauren and Michiko looked on, and finally asked, "Do you really think I can do it?"

"Oh, I know you can," Rowena said softly, then hugged the girl while Roarke and the three older girls gazed on. He smiled as they exchanged wondering glances.

Rowena boosted Crystal onto Candy Kisses and sent her off, and Roarke approached her while the girls hung back, waiting with ears wide open. "Miss Haversham, that was a most admirable gesture."

"Well, what else could I do?" Rowena asked, her voice sounding much like that of the elderly woman she truly was.

Roarke nodded. "This means, of course, that you've lost your chance to win the blue ribbon," he reminded her.

"Oh, no," she contradicted with a soft little smile. "I'll win—twice over."

Even Roarke looked surprised at this. "But I'm afraid your fantasy is over, Miss Haversham," he said, glancing past her. She turned, and the girls followed his gaze, to see the young native man waiting near a cabana with Rowena's wheelchair.

"Only what I came here for, Mr. Roarke," she murmured, and with a wistful smile, she plodded quietly to the chair and took her seat in it. The girls watched as Roarke gazed hard at her, and within a mere few seconds young, whole Rowena became elderly, wheelchair-bound Miss Haversham once again.

"Oh my god!" gasped Lauren. "What in the world—?"

Michiko pulled in a long breath. "You mean Rowena Haversham wasn't what we all thought she was?"

Leslie nodded. "Yup—that's the real Rowena Haversham. I mean, I know you guys knew she was really in a wheelchair, but I thought you realized she's in her seventies."

"Well, someone forgot to tell us that," Lauren retorted, and Leslie snickered.

Roarke, overhearing them, laughed quietly and rejoined them. "I suggest you ladies turn your attention to the arena," he said, "and keep an eye on Miss Denning."

They filed back to the stands and the announcer's booth, and Roarke reclaimed his horse and joined Tattoo once more. Crystal Denning turned in a beautiful showing; it wasn't perfect, for at least a couple of times, Candy Kisses brushed against the top pole in an obstacle he jumped. But the poles remained in place, and both horse and rider looked in top form otherwise. Crystal looked flushed and happy when she finished; Leslie watched the judge pass Tattoo a card, and Tattoo gave it to Roarke.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please," he said into the mike. "I have just been handed the final score. For the first time in the history of this exciting and difficult event, the judge has awarded a score of ninety-nine point ninety-nine." Over the loud applause and whistles, he continued, "The winner of today's competition, ladies and gentlemen, is Miss Crystal Denning on Candy Kisses!"

"Wow," said Michiko. "I guess she really set a record. What an achievement!"

"Yeah," Leslie agreed, grinning. "Now maybe she'll be the most famous student at Fantasy Island High, instead of me!" Her friends laughed at that and poked her.

Roarke signaled at them to follow him, and they fell into line behind the native pushing Miss Haversham's wheelchair. They watched Crystal accept the gold cup and blue ribbon, murmur something excited-sounding to herself and kiss Candy Kisses on the side of his head, and then approach Miss Haversham with the ribbon, which she pinned onto the elderly lady's dress. "This is yours, Miss Haversham."

"Thank you, my child," she replied through tears, trying to smile.

Crystal smiled back, then straightened up and peered around as if in search of someone. "Who're you looking for, Crystal?" Leslie called.

Crystal turned and caught sight of Roarke, addressing both him and Leslie. "Oh, just a friend. I wanted to thank her for lending me her beautiful riding crop, and giving me the spirit to win." At that Roarke smiled, and as Crystal turned away to rejoin her uncle and her horse, Leslie, Lauren and Michiko grinned too, very happy with the outcome.

§ § § - January 17, 1983

It was a surprise to see Danny Clements step out of a rover with a pretty young brunette in pink at his side. "Well, Mr. Clements," Roarke commented, "you don't look happy this bright and cheerful morning."

"Well, Gina's father wants her to come home immediately," Clements said reluctantly and squeezed the woman's shoulder. "So I guess that leaves good old Boston for me, huh?"

"Are you sure that's where you're going?" said Tattoo and withdrew something from an inner jacket pocket, handing it to Clements.

Clements stared at the plane tickets. "My flight's been changed?"

"Instead of flying directly back to the states," Roarke told him, "where a grateful United States government official will present you your reward, you will first visit a certain capital city where a hero's welcome awaits you. You will be the personal guest of the president." He grinned when Clements' face lit with astonishment.

"It's a surprise, darling," Gina told him excitedly, grinning at him.

"Well," Clements said with a chuckle, "with the trade winds and Mr. Roarke at our side, how can we lose?"

"You can't," Tattoo said, grinning.

"That's for sure," Leslie seconded him, and they laughed, exchanging thanks, handshakes and farewells before watching the pair head for the ramp to board the plane.

The second rover came around and discharged Rowena Haversham—who, Leslie was surprised to see, exited the car on her own two feet, using a cane—and Crystal and Jim Denning. "How wonderful to see you out of that wheelchair, Miss Haversham," Roarke said, and Leslie nodded, catching Crystal's eye and trading grins with her.

"These two had to pry me out," said Miss Haversham with a smile of mock annoyance. "But now that I've made it, there's no stopping me—or my partners."

"Partners?" Leslie repeated, amazed.

"We're gonna raise horses—lots and lots of them," Crystal told her excitedly.

"With the Haversham Farm reputation and a champion like Candy Kisses, we can't miss. Thanks for everything, Mr. Roarke."

"You're very welcome, Mr. Denning," Roarke replied.

"So you're moving?" Leslie asked.

"Sold the farmhouse," Crystal told her, "and we're going to live in Kentucky with Miss Haversham. I'll miss you, Leslie. Thanks for being my friend—even if we hardly ever got to see each other, never mind hang out together."

Leslie smiled. "Well, good luck—and we'll miss you too." She watched Jim and Crystal head for the plane and let out a little sigh.

"Well, what about it, Mr. Roarke?" Miss Haversham queried when they were out of earshot, bringing Leslie's attention back to the action at hand. "Will Candy Kisses be a champion? Does the riding crop have the same power once it leaves Fantasy Island?"

"Why, Miss Haversham, the riding crop has no special powers," Roarke said, with a touch of incredulity.

"It doesn't? But I..." she began.

Roarke explained, "The real power was in your gesture of love and generosity; Candy Kisses was always a champion." They exchanged smiles; then she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, and with smiles and waves for Tattoo and Leslie, she made her way forward to join Jim and Crystal on the charter plane.

Tattoo was wiping away tears, and Roarke took a second, closer look when he noticed. "Why, Tattoo, what is the matter?" he asked with sympathy. "Miss Haversham has her blue ribbon, and with Crystal and Candy Kisses around, she won't be lonely anymore!"

"Oh, I always was a sucker for good endings," Tattoo murmured with a sheepish little smile. Roarke grinned, and they all straightened up and made a final wave; Tattoo turned his back once their erstwhile guests had continued up the ramp, trying to hide his tears, and Roarke chuckled to himself, with a hand on his forehead.

The seaplane's hatch closed behind them, and Roarke and Tattoo were about to turn away when they realized Leslie hadn't followed them. "Leslie, come on, you'll be late for school if you don't move," Tattoo admonished, still brushing away a stray tear or two.

"What's wrong, Leslie? I know you'll miss Crystal, but perhaps she will write," Roarke said questioningly.

Leslie sighed. "Oh, that's not the problem. I mean, sure, I'll miss her...but drat it, I thought she was gonna be the big focus of the spotlight at school after she won that competition. Now it'll be back on me because I'm your ward. So much for not being famous...or is that _infamous?"_ She shot Roarke a look that made Tattoo burst out laughing.


	10. Chapter 10

§ § § - October 10, 2009

Christian, too, burst out laughing upon hearing Leslie's closing remark to Roarke. "I knew there was another reason I fell in love with you!" he exclaimed, hugging her from his seated position behind her. "You have the same aversion to fame that I do!"

Leslie grinned and said cheerfully, "I hate to disillusion you, my love, but that's only because I was famous for the wrong reasons. If it had been for the right ones, I probably would have basked in all that nice attention." This time they all laughed, and she squeezed her husband's hands.

"One other thing," Christian said just as Leslie would have changed the subject. "So you met a _jordisk_ equestrian, did you? What in the world made you assume he would have met anyone in my family?"

Leslie snickered. "You know the reputation the equestrian world has—frequented primarily by rich people. Royalty is rich practically by definition, and you hear all the time about the British royals riding—playing polo, fox-hunting, going to Ascot, whatever. I think most people would assume that royalty all over Europe is involved with horses. But trust you and your family to be the exceptions to the rule."

Christian rolled his eyes. "Well, that isn't my fault, so you may as well stop looking at me like that, Leslie Enstad."

They all laughed, and Leslie focused on Anna-Kristina. "Well, there you are—three of them to get you through the night. We'll be back in the morning to see how it went, but for right now we really all have to go back and take care of some urgent matters."

Anna-Kristina smiled with resignation. "All right, all right then. I'll let you go, but I'm worried about tonight. If I have more nightmares, will they let me sleep through the remaining week I have to wait?"

"That remains to be seen," Roarke said, rising along with Christian and Leslie. "For now, try not to worry about it, and speak with the doctors about your concerns, especially in the morning if you find you have had nightmares. We'll return as soon as hospital visiting hours begin." Anna-Kristina nodded, and the trio wished her a good night and left the room.

At the main house, they were set upon by the triplets. "Is Stina coming home yet?" asked Karina hopefully.

"Not tonight, _lillan min,_ but possibly tomorrow, if things go well for her," Christian said, smoothing her hair. "We'll have to wait and see. Right now, are you three hungry?"

They were, so Christian accompanied them out to the table while Leslie went upstairs to retrieve Anastasia. The baby was awake but still drowsy, so Leslie settled her into her infant carrier and took her downstairs to join the family and awaken at her own pace. "How is she?" Christian asked, catching sight of her as she neared the table.

"Sleepy," said Leslie with a grin. "She'll probably be fine till after we've eaten. So Father, what time do hospital visiting hours start?"

"Nine o'clock," Roarke said.

"Were you visiting Stina?" Tobias asked, and at his parents' and grandfather's nods, asked, "Why can't we go too?"

"For the same reason you couldn't see your mother in the hospital when your sister was born," Christian said.

" 'Cause we're too little? That's dumb," scoffed Susanna. "We're five whole years old, and we're royals too, so we know how to be good."

Leslie slapped a hand over her mouth; Christian gaped at his daughter, and Roarke ducked his head a bit in a halfhearted attempt to hide his grin. _"I ödets namn!"_ Christian exclaimed. "Where did that come from?"

"Did they have Royal Comportment classes while you were in Lilla Jordsö earlier this year?" Roarke asked, highly amused.

Leslie turned a quizzical look on Christian, who chuckled. "I thought it would help keep them occupied, and their cousins were there each weekday anyhow. They're a year younger than I was when I began those classes, but I hoped perhaps they might pick up something from them nonetheless. They can start next year when we return."

"You mean we can take some more next time we go on vacation? That'll be fun," said Karina. "I liked those classes—we got to learn to be princesses."

"Next time we go back, _lillan min,_ it will be to live there," Christian said gently, after a slight throat-clearing. "It won't be for almost a year, but we'll be moving."

The triplets looked at one another, as if confused; then Karina peered at Roarke. "Are you closing Fantasy Island, Grandfather?"

Christian's and Leslie's gazes shot to Roarke; they were as avid to hear his response as the children were. Roarke glanced at them but focused on the little girl. "No, Karina...the island will run as always, but your mother's cousin Rogan will be doing it. I...I am afraid I must leave...to do something else, to join a group of people who very much need my help. It also means I will have to leave the island for good, and that you won't be able to see me again when I do."

"You're gonna die?" Tobias demanded.

"Grandfather isn't going to die," Leslie assured him, though her voice faltered a bit and Christian laid a hand atop hers for support. "It's only that he has to go somewhere that we can't see him anymore, unless it's for a very special reason."

"But we don't want you to go!" Karina exclaimed.

"I wish I didn't have to," Roarke said softly, his dark eyes gleaming for a moment as he gazed at her. "But the choice is not mine to make; I must do it, whether I wish it or not. I'll miss all of you very much, believe me, _mi dulce."_

Susanna stuck out her lower lip. "That's not fair. Whoever's making you go away, I don't like them."

"Me either," Tobias and Karina said, in almost perfect chorus. Then Karina added, "But if Grandfather has to go away, how come we have to move?"

"Your mother won't have a job here anymore, for one thing. And in any case, we've talked about it a lot already," Christian said. "It took us a long time to make this decision, Karina. It was very difficult for us to do, but it had to be done."

"But we'll come back here every summer," Leslie said, audibly trying to control the faint shaking in her voice. "We're keeping our house, and we'll spend summers here so you can see your friends. It's going to be all right."

Christian squeezed her hand, clearly noting that she was saying this as much for her own reassurance as for the children's. "Yes, it will, my Rose," he said softly, returning her weak smile, then aiming it at the children. "It'll be all right. Before Grandfather has to leave us, we'll make sure we have a portrait taken with all of us together—you three and the baby, your mother and me, and your grandfather. Then you'll be able to remember him."

By now the triplets were all on the verge of tears; Karina erupted from her chair, squeezed behind Susanna's and threw her arms around Roarke, who caught her and pulled her into his lap. "I love you lots, Grandfather," she said, beginning to cry. "If you have to go, then we should get to visit you."

"We should get to go with you," Tobias said. "It's not fair."

"I want to go too," Susanna cried, and with that all three children were clustered around Roarke, clinging to him and crying. Roarke tried to hug them all at once, and for one of the very few times Leslie could remember, there were tears standing in his eyes. Her own filled and overflowed in one swift second, and Christian arose, pulled her to her feet and gathered her into his arms.

"Father said it once," she murmured to him, hugging him hard, as if trying to soak up courage and emotional fortitude from him. "Life is seldom fair, and if it were, there'd be no need for a place like this. But I guess some fantasies can never come true."

Christian sighed, kissing the side of her head and smoothing her hair. "It seems so, my Rose. In the end, there are some losses we have no choice but to learn to endure. It's only that you and I have been just a little more fortunate than most, because we had certain opportunities that would never be extended to others. Perhaps all we can do is take our comfort from that, and try to be grateful that we had those chances."

She nodded against him, and he gave her a squeeze and rocked her a little. For a few minutes they tried to comfort one another, with only the triplets' crying breaking the silence that dropped around them, till Mariki emerged with the serving cart. "I think," she said in an oddly uncomfortable voice after a moment, "that I've got seriously bad timing."

"If you would allow us a few minutes," Roarke requested quietly, and she nodded, retreating hastily. For just a little while, the family worked their way through their grief, taking the moment to savor their togetherness while they still could; and Leslie closed her eyes, wondering bleakly what would happen on their last day together.

* * *

 _More coming soon...this would be a really bad place to just leave it, after all, so watch for the next one!_


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